


All of this Music (breaks my heart)

by sistersin7



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst light, F/F, Fluff, Indie Music AU, Music-making geekness, general music geekness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistersin7/pseuds/sistersin7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>B&W AU.<br/>The indie music business is tough to crack, especially in the small town that’s also the home of the illustrious Warehouse Studios and its landmark label.<br/>Can Claudia Donovan make a career of her music? Can Helena Wells restore Warehouse Studios to its former glory? Can Myka Bering make a success of her Success Records?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MuddyPuppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuddyPuppy/gifts).



> My immense and eternal gratitude to MuddyPuppy (who bravely QAed their own gift), Granger4013 (who very kindly let me share the musical domain with her beautiful Put Your Records On) and KellsBells (who supported).  
> And – as always - thank you so much for reading.  
> *Added upon completion:   
> There's a YouTube playlist with music from this story and music that inspired this story, here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLehF5Zy1mmG5RNU3iHfwLODRhBZAJqxjp

Claudia Donovan stands in the wings of the small stage, warming up. She tilts her head from side to side, getting into the headspace of occupying the stage while mumbling lyrics to herself. She practices the progression of chords in her head, and then on the neck of the guitar, her fingers sliding on the steel strings of her telecaster which faintly sigh and creek as she changes the constellation of fingertips on the fretboard.

It's the first time she'll cover Jeff Buckley (even though his is also a cover), and this is very ambitious, and – Christ in a hot rod – is she ready for it?, but it's Steve's request and she loves Steve as much as she does her own brother and he's away on a mission on his birthday, so wherever he is, she knows he will feel her singing Lilac Wine just for him off the stage of small, mid-west-university-town-bar's open mic night.

The MC announces her and she walks on to the dimly lit stage and into the spotlight in the middle of it, to the sound of two – no – three people clapping.

"Thank you," she speaks into the mic, "and thanks, Trey, for that awesome intro. I'm Claudia and let's get this little show on the road."

She strums a hesitant E chord that rings throughout the small bar, then starts picking the chord more gently. Her opener is another cover of a cover: Cat Power's version of Naked if I Want to. It's a bold and very vulnerable choice, but Claudia Donovan has resided herself to the fact that music is the only thing that will save  _her_  mortal soul, so for the sake of therapy and catharsis and everything that is healing in the power of exposing the most sacred part of her insides to a bunch of drunken strangers, she sings it like she  _means_  it.

Her eyes are clamped shut throughout, and she knows she's supposed to open them, because that's how you connect with the audience, but she can't bring herself to because the lyrics are just so raw and so true. When she opens them after the last of the final notes of the final chord had faded out and the room is completely silent, she's relieved and panicked in equal measures.

Then there is a low-timbered, yet distinctly female voice from the back of the bar grunting "Yeah!" followed by exuberant clapping and the whole bar roars with applause. Well, as much of a roaring applause twenty-odd people can make.

"Thank you," she smiles coyly into the mic, and without much preamble she launches into her second song of the set, one of her own. It's about depression and madness and drugs, but it could equally be about being a twenty-something without a clue of what to do next. That's the beauty of songwriting to Claudia. She can write about something that's so  _wrong_ , but people will find something  _right_  about it, and make it their own, and like it. And that's so so cool.

The excited female at the back instigates the next round of applause, and Claudia wants to thank her, so she holds her hand up to shield her eyes from the spotlight, but all she sees is a dark silhouette of a lanky female body. She smiles directly at the silhouette, in the hope that it (no, she. It's definitely a she) will catch the small gesture of gratitude.

"This next one," she clears her throat, "is for a dear friend of mine who’s putting his life on the line out there somewhere so that all of us can sleep a little bit better at night." She plucks the strings individually and fiddles with the tuning pegs, correcting the tiny faults that occur to guitar strings when you play them. "I'm a little bit scared of playing this, because this song is a bit like a prayer in our household and I've never sung it in front of people before."

She looks up and all the twenty-odd people are looking straight at her.

"I –" her breath catches, "I hope you enjoy it," she says and starts the intro to Lilac Wine.

The silhouette at the back of the bar caught Claudia's smile and smiles back, just in case the artist on stage notices. But as Claudia sings more and more of Lilac Wine, the drunken stranger at the back of the bar realises how much of a prayer it actually is and the smile fades from her lips.

It's fading because the small, skinny redhead on the stage is pouring a whole other truth into a song, a different truth to that of Nina Simone or Elkie Brooks or John Legend or Jeff Buckley. And  _this_  truth, the redhead's truth, touches something in the drunken stranger's soul and she knows that's something special.

Claudia finishes her set, thanks the audience one last time and gets off the stage. When she's in the safe and dark confines of the wings she exhales loudly, letting the guitar and her arms dangle limply while she collects herself from the experience.

"That kicked major ass, Claud," Trey, the MC, comes up to her. "Someone left you a thirty bucks tab at the bar again, babe, looks like you're eating tonight!" he smiles down at her and walks on the stage to introduce the next act.

She knows he's joking about the "eating tonight" thing, but she doesn't get a lot of money for these things, and what she's paid for her demeaning tech support job is barely enough to keep her shoebox of an apartment, so realistically, a tab at the bar does mean she will be eating  _better_  tonight. And if Artie, the barman, is in a good mood, she'll be eating better tomorrow night too.

She reverently places her telecaster in its hard case and walks out to the bar of Booze & Blues (or the B&B as the locals refer to it), where she hopes to get a club sandwich and chips. She's also hoping to thank the roaring fan at the back of the bar. But when she looks to the far corner of the room the table where the silhouette was sitting is empty.

 

* * *

 

 

The door to the studio slams, and that unnerves Helena. It takes a mighty great effort to make that door slam, because it's designed to  _not_  slam under pretty much any and all circumstances. She clicks pause and scribbles a note in her pad on top of the mixing desk and gets up to inspect the hinges.

"Sodding bloody buggery of a bastard," she spits and hisses under her breath, because the dramatic antics of the lead singer of this emo band just managed to rip the door off its hinges. Irene will not be happy to foot the $750 bill to get this fixed and Helena, cockiness and confidence aside, is a professional and won't like reporting this type of damage, this being her first month with Irene Frederic's record label.

She huffs with the strain of lifting the door up an inch so that the ripped screws line up with the holes from which they were torn, and rushes over to the cabinet at the back of the control room where she keeps her toolbox. She fishes out eight screws, all considerably longer and thicker than the ones the hinges sported before, and plugs the glue gun to heat up. Blue Petering the door back on its expensive hinges takes 45 minutes which – if calculated coldly – is still cheaper than $750.

She inspects her work and makes final adjustments when she realises that the door is just slightly more open than ajar. "Bollocks," she mutters, because even though her build is fairly small – she will not be able to fit through what is effectively little-more-than-a-crack. Paired with the fact it would take the glue at least four hours to dry, and the time is just past midnight, Helena calls Leena to come and lock the Warehouse's front doors from the outside, because she'll have to spend the night in the control room.

This isn't the first night Helena Wells has spent in the control room of a recording studio, and this probably won't be the last either. In the cabinet where she keeps her toolbox she also keeps a spare set of clean beddings and there is always a sofa that's comfortable enough to sleep on for the night.

There is no way, however, she will be going to sleep with that dreadful whinge of a band on her spool, so she switches the input to the mixing desk from the tape deck to the computer, and loads up some old recordings from eleven years ago, from when she was a product manager for a leading audio software company in Detroit, and was sent out to Washington DC on loan to the Secret Service for two months.

The recordings are of jam sessions Helena and her Secret Service counterpart, Myka Bering, held. They are the result of three slightly drunken nights in which they attempted to re-produce (and by that, Helena recalls with a faint smile that drips of fondness and nostalgia, she means  _produce again_  as opposed to simply re-make) albums that they believed needed a different flavour despite their greatness.

Helena's favourite of their three nights' jam was their take of Tracy Chapman's debut album. Neither of them could sing the way Tracy Chapman does, so between them they managed to record all the music, and backing vocals and some very creative solo-stand-ins with the multitude of instruments they could play between them.

On some tracks Helena can hear them humming the tune. And harmonising. It's beautiful.

It soothes her not only because these songs are so breathtakingly blue and calming with their sadness, but because those three nights with Myka (and the six weeks that ensued) are quite possibly the best time she has ever had with any person she's ever met.

She curls up on the sofa and listens to the recording from beginning to end, all 42 minutes of it, and she falls asleep with a smile, tantrums and emos and doors long forgot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 2: Claudia has friends, and Helena is… well… Helena.

Claudia unpacks her guitar in her spatially-challenged apartment and negotiates the tight space between her bed, kitchen counter, computer desk and mountains of musical equipment to allow her to hook up her home studio get-up.

It takes her about an hour to reach the desired effect for the particular song she’s been working on, because her preferred method involves wiring her guitar into two amps simultaneously, using mics to capture the sound from the amps (rather than using a simple direct input/DI to the desk).

Claudia, for all her digital savviness, is almost old-school with her sound-capturing preference: she believes there is a quality that air adds to sound waves (seeing as it's air that makes them viable to begin with), so she likes to have air between the thing that  _makes_ the noise and the thing _captures_  it.

And while her preference sounds a lot better in playback, it makes for a cumbersome setup in such a tiny space: once two guitars are out of their cases, and two amps are put into position, and four mics have been set up in front of them (on stands), and the mics are wired back into her little mixing desk… the position she needs to adopt in order to actually play is uncomfortable – at best.

She slumps on the floor, careful not to bang her Guild on anything. "I need a bigger space," she whispers and then pushes herself up slightly, because sitting atop the mic cables kinda hurts, actually.

She touches the strings of the acoustic guitar in her lap, and it sighs _twice_ : once with its traditional folky tinge of metal strings, and again (but at the same time) with an unusual reverbed distortion from an impressive Mesa Boogie amp. It is that twinned sigh that recharges her spirit, and she gets herself up, and in spite of the severe space limitations, she starts recording a new song.

A bright red light blinking over her desk distracts her from attempting to digitally manipulate a bit of echo into a note.

"Oh, crap," she mutters as she looks at the clock on the screen of her computer, and turns the volume on her speakers way down.

The red light continues to blare at her angrily.

"Shit, shit, shit…" she fumbles with the knobs on the mixing desk and starts saving her work on the computer indiscriminately. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Calder," she speaks up, "I didn't notice the time…" she's distracted with paving a way across the tight jungle of wires to the door that's no more than six feet away, but might as well be a mile.

When she gets to the door and swings it open with a cascading waterfall of apologies, she's surprised by the gaunt figure that awaits for her on the other side of it.

"You sang it last week, didn't you?" the tall, almost ghostly pale young man asks with a warm smile.

She squeals in true delight and jumps on him with a hug. "Of course I did, you moody lump!" her words are muffled by the heavy jacket he is wearing.

He returns her hug and they stand in her doorway for long minutes.

"Looks like you've been busy," he says as he looks over her shoulder into the small room.

She lets go of him and lands back on her feet, then turns around. "Yeah," she nods. "Two new songs this week," she gestures for him to get in. "I can make you your smelly tea?"

"That'll be cool," he answers and steps carefully into the now-even-tighter space.

Claudia wriggles around him, while reaching for the Chai tea bags, and then the fridge for soy milk, and then the cupboard for a clean mug, and then the portable hob for the kettle.

When she finishes she stands in front of him again and tucks her hands in the front pockets of her tight jeans. "How awesome that you're back," she can barely contain her excitement at the early return of her friend.

He bobs his head, exuding discomfort as they stand awkwardly in front of each other, a bit too close for comfort.

"Where are my manners," she chides herself expressively and lurches to her bed, pushing the cables and connectors on it to one corner, and putting her Stratocaster away. Once enough space is created on the single bed, she motions Steve to sit down.

"You really need a bigger apartment, Claud," he says after he sits down.

"Tell me about it," she huffs when she sits next to him. "I mean it, Steve-o. Tell me all about it."

"About how much you need a bigger room to live in?"

"No, silly!" she swipes his knee. "Tell me about the operation. And how come you have the complexion of a jelly fish. Who were you stinging, anyway? Vampires? Did you not get any sun over the past six months at all?"

He chuckles and she smiles in return. "You know I can't tell you much," he starts apologetically, "but I can definitely confirm that is wasn't vampires."

She eyes him sceptically.

"I spent a lot of time in tunnels," he relents eventually.

Her eyebrows shoot upwards in anticipation.

He exhales and thinks through information he would be able to share with her without putting anyone at too much risk. "It was a very underground weapons and human trafficking ring," he says quietly, "so there was not a lot of fresh air and sun, even though it was down in Arizona. Could have been Alaska, for all I know."

Claudia senses the danger of her best friend's job and it makes her feel lucky he's there with her, but also makes her afraid for him. She clasps the thumb of her left hand in her right palm and squeezes it tightly. "I worry about you when you're on these crazy ass missions," she says.

He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, which does little to break the long, tense silence.

They continue sitting silently next to each other in the crammed space for ten more minutes.

"That kettle's never gonna boil," he comments.

"It won't," she shrugs. "The hot plate never gets hot enough."

"Come on," he gets up and pushes a mic stand out of the way. "I'm taking you out."

A smile blooms across her lips and she whizzes around the small space, switching all manners of electrics off. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

 

"Where, on earth, do you dig them up from?" Helena leans back into the high-backed ergonomic swivel, facing the sofa she's learned to love as her second bed by now, where her boss, Irene Frederic is sitting.

When you look at her, Irene is one of the least likely people to own a record label, which is probably why Helena took to her almost instantly. With her woolen suits, twee blouses and 50s style glasses; with her enigmatic air and body guards built like brick outhouses, she is probably more suited to be running a secret government organisation than she is to be running a record label.

But she is phenomenally good at her job. Helena always appreciated – admired even – the musical inventiveness that spiraled from Warehouse Records artists. So when she decided it was time to hang her coat of technical innovation in favour of technical mastery of her aforementioned innovations, it wasn't hard to narrow down the wish list of prospective employers.

"That, Helena, may be part of the problem," the solemn lady answers mysteriously.

Helena slumps in her chair, thinking carefully about how she wants to bring up the level of talent she was contending with in the studio. Three months ago, upon being hired, she was tasked with creating a sampler for the label. But the artists she's been working with are more hot air than hot stuff, and she doesn't want to complain, but, as they say in her homeland, there is only so much lipstick you can put on a pig. "It's a struggle," she winds up exhaling in defeat. "The people seem to be more interested in having their faces plastered on online memes than they are in the art. In the work."

Irene rolls her shoulders and looks at Helena from over the rim of her purple glasses. "If they are hungry enough for success, sometimes it is a matter of marrying them with the right substance," she suggests a pragmatic solution. "You know as well as I do how rare it is to find a complete package."

The dark haired engineer sighs deeply. "I despair sometimes," she leans her head into her palm, closes her eyes and rubs them gently with her forefinger and thumb.

Irene huffs a short laugh. "If it were easy everyone would do it."

Helena exhales a hearty laugh, "True words if ever true words were –" she looks up to meet Mrs. Frederic's eyes to find out she had already left the control room, "– spoken," she finishes her quip with a whisper. She raises her eyebrows in slight disbelief, attempting to consider how a woman of Irene's stature could vanish without stirring so much as a wisp of air.

The mind of the genius engineer that she is begins trawling through her extensive knowledge of sleight of hand and modern magic. It attempts to find an explanation to Irene's ability to appear and disappear at will.

She shakes her head lightly, to stop herself wasting valuable resources in fathoming this conundrum, because she is tasked with fixing the musical monstrosity on her spool. So instead of unraveling the mystery that is Irene Frederic, she turns her chair around and pours over the mixing desk, experimenting with the amount of makeup she applies to a farm animal.

After two hours of what Helena classes 'extreme post production', she listens to the end result once; then a second time; then a third. As she listens, she holds her gaze mid-air, the tips of her fingers hovering over the sliders as if she is readying herself to play an instrument.

She's pleased with the end result, at least to the point she's happy to commit this to a CD output, and it is ready to move on to mastering. But that will have to wait for another day because she cannot possibly listen to this track one more time today.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 3: who is this Myka you speak of?

Claudia finishes her Thursday night set at the B&B and rushes off the stage without her usual gratitude to the crowd, without taking her guitar off her, because the silhouette from the back of the bar hasn't left yet: she's talking to Artie over the bar, and Claudia hopes that Artie will stay true to his promise to keep that person around for as long as he can so that she can finally say hello to what she believes is her single supporter, her biggest (and only) fan.

She nearly tackles Trey over as she runs past, brushing off his usual quip about eating tonight. She rushes to the front of the house and gets to the bar just as the tall, slim female is turning to leave. Claudia lunges forward and grabs the woman's arm. "Wait!" she falls short of shouting.

The woman turns around, wide eyed and surprised, like a doe caught in headlights. She has a soft face and pleasant features. She doesn't look drunk enough for the responses she elicits for Claudia from the crowd every open mic night. Either that or she holds her liquor very, very well.

"I'm Claudia," she still hasn't let go of the woman's arm, whose eyes move from where Claudia's hand is tightly clasping her to Claudia’s eyes, "and I just wanted to say thank you _so_...” she pauses dramatically, “ _so_ much for your support." Claudia widens her smile, because she realises this may come across a little bit creepy – lunging at a stranger in a bar who quite clearly avoided being met all this time.

The woman's face brightens up with a soft, lopsided smile. "I know who you are, and the pleasure is all mine."

Claudia relaxes and bursts into ringing, joyful laughter. "Really?"

The woman looks confused.

Claudia pats the stool she is standing next to, "please let me buy you a drink."

The woman shakes her head. "That's not what the thirty bucks is for. It's kind of silly for you to use money I'm leaving for you to buy  _me_  a drink."

"Please," smiling brown eyes are searching those of the stranger, who relents after a moment and sits down on the next stool over, and Claudia climbs the one she patted, manoeuvring her guitar around so it lays securely across her lap. "Arturo, please treat the lady to her drink of choice," she orders the moody bartender.

He eyes Claudia sternly from under his bushy eyebrows and places a club soda in front of the stranger. "Single or double?" he asks the tall woman, and she holds one finger up. He pours a single whiskey from a bottle he keeps under the bar and puts it in front of her.

Artie and the stranger exchange looks that obviously mean more to them than they do to Claudia.

"Stop that, you two," she commands them. "Now, Mrs. Single Scotch and Club Soda who knows who  _I_  am," she turns and faces the stranger, "do I get to know who you are?"

The stranger picks up her drink and brings it up to her lips. After taking a small sip and a long breath she looks at Claudia. "I'm Myka."

"Great to meet you, Myka," the redhead smiles brightly. "Thank you so much for supporting my hobby."

Myka chortles. "Hobby," she whispers into her whiskey glass and savours another sip of the intoxicating amber liquid.

"What's so funny?" Claudia is honestly looking for the joke.

"Is that what this is to you?" the kind face is replaced with a serious expression. "A hobby?"

"It ain't exactly paying the bills," Claudia tries to gauge how serious Myka is with her question, "the only contribution this makes in the context of bills is creating more of them. So, yeah, in my book that's a hobby."

Myka's eyes narrow as she looks into Claudia's, and in this moment Claudia is beginning to think that Myka might be the mean kind of drunk.

"Do you want it to stay a hobby?" her voice is low and a little menacing.

Claudia puffs a choked laugh and wants to answer, but all of a sudden she's not sure what this answer may be. No one has ever asked her this. No one has actually asked her to really consider the possibility and implication of making music for a living. Sure, she occasionally engages in some productive daydreaming about not having to work her stupid tech support job, and having all the time she needs to write her songs, to record them and craft them into the little pieces of exposing art that they are, investing in them all the love she has within her.

But she does all that now. Granted, not as frequently as she’d perhaps like, but it’s working. Quitting her job in this economy, though, is a risky move. And for what? Tying her livelihood with her creativity? That’s an even riskier move. And Claudia realizes that her concern is not that it _wouldn’t_ work, but that it _would_ : She used to love getting systems to work and she used to love looking for security loopholes in servers before she did those for a living.

"I –" the redhead starts and can't continue, her jaw falls slack.

Myka’s smile returns to her lips. "Have a think about it, Claudia. I'll continue supporting you either way," she downs the rest of her whiskey and leaves a ten dollar bill on the bar before sliding off the barstool and leaving the B&B.

Claudia turns her confused look to Artie. "What just happened?" she asks.

He chuckles, collects the ten dollars, removes Myka's tumbler and glass from the bar and buffs the surface underneath them. "That was you nearly missing out on an opportunity," he gives her a knowing smile. "Dinner?"

Her jaw drops further and she nods stiffly. "What opportunity?"

"Myka is an independent and she’s on the hunt for new talent," he opens a bottle of Coors light and places it in front of the young woman.

Claudia's face could not be projecting more confusion or disbelief than it already does. "Indie?"

He nods at her.

"She's A&Ring?"

He nods again. "And producing and engineering and co-creating and managing."

"Do I know anyone she's worked with?"

He shakes his head. "Probably not. She worked with a couple of indie folk artists in Scotland and Canada before coming back here and setting up her studio".

"So she's as much a newb at this as I am," her tone turns a bit defensive.

"I suppose," Artie looks at her and pauses thoughtfully, "but that question she asked you?"

"Yeah?"

"She knows how to answer it," he slaps the rag onto his shoulder and walks into the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

Helena spends three days with a female singer in her early 20s. She is clearly a talented singer, but she's also too heavily influenced by the likes of Sia and Gaga; and is far, far too young and far, far too close to graduating from Art School and has way too many idealised concepts about her right for free musical expression.

There were times over the three days that Helena thinks it's sweet – this belief in the power and purity of free, artistic expression that this young lady has. But then Helena would suggest something about vocalisation or production or layering of tracks, and the girl would fly into a free and expressive artistic tantrum.

This is the very reason Helena doesn't date artists. She dated a ballet dancer once, and a sculptor once, and a couple of painters. Every single one of those relationships ended similarly to the others, with an exchange that involved an unacceptably high volume of drama for Helena's taste. After each and every one of those endings, Helena vowed she would never date another artist. She seemed to have managed to keep well off them for the past four years.

So while the young lady was wrapping up her tirade of Helena's corporate fist attempting to break her creative bone, but – oh – it is too young and flexible to be broken, Helena rolls her eyes and congratulates herself for her four years of artist-free dating.

At the end of the three days and in between tantrums, Helena manages to lay enough decent conceptual artistry to put together three tracks for the singer, one of which in a rather impressive dance mix, if she may say so herself.

She catches a glimpse at the wall clock above the studio window. Almost eleven. Leena knocks on the control room door before walking in with two cups of tea.

"Hey there," she sets one mug down next to Helena, who is putting in the final touches to the mix.

"Thank you, darling," Helena greets the studio manager with a smile she keeps to herself and the mixing desk.

"How did it go, then?" she sits down on the sofa behind Helena.

"The door is intact and the tracks are far more interesting than I thought they would be," she answers distractedly. "Listen to this," she presses a few buttons and moves some sliders around to expose the foundation tracks the singer laid with Helena's guidance (at the odd times she didn’t perceive it to be a tool of oppression).

She turns around to judge Leena's expression as the track’s background music and  _noises_  play. Leena's eyes light up and Helena's smile broadens.

"Congratulations, HG," she smiles brightly at the rather smug engineer, "very impressive."

"Quite Bjork-esque, wouldn't you say?"

Leena nods and sips her tea. "Are you spending the night again?" she checks with the engineer.

Not sure of the amount of judgement Leena injected into her comment, Helena's smile fades and she turns back to the mixing desk, bringing the rest of the levels up, and the room fills with the whole song, one layer at the time. "I would like to finish this," she mutters, and takes a quick sip of her tea. "Is that alright?"

"Sure," Leena says and gets up. "Remind me to talk to you about having a life sometime," she smiles and walks to the door.

Helena mumbles something indiscernible.

"See you tomorrow, HG," Leena walks out and locks Helena in the Warehouse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 4: you can't live in a small town without bumping in to all sorts of people in a cafe on a Saturday afternoon.

It's very late on a Saturday afternoon when Myka rushes out of the post office after having sent some forms to the planning department and a couple of applications for grants from local foundations that support the Arts in the Mid-West and the Great Plains. She also carries a small mountain of papers from the bank, because her bank manager needs her to complete umpteen forms that will help her sustain her business as it _becomes_.

The thought of all this bureaucracy leaves her craving some caffeine and quite possibly something sticky and sweet. She walks into a small artisan coffee place on Main Street and places an order for a large Hazelnut Americano and an oversized triple chocolate chip cookie, and sugary consequences be damned.

As the baristas fulfil her order, she fumbles with the papers she has stacked on her arm and tries to find a way to hold them and her keys and her sunglasses and the coffee and the cookie. She's frustrated by her not being able to juggle this because usually her brain is exceptionally good at working through these types of puzzles very quickly. This is just one of the reasons she did so well at the Secret Service, even though that's not her life anymore.

"Let me help," a soft, British-accented voice she would recognise almost anywhere startles her from behind, and a slender, toned and slightly sun kissed hand she would _definitely_ recognise anywhere sweeps up her sunglasses and keys from the counter.

Myka turns around and brief, courteous gratitude falls from her lips automatically as her green eyes meet the brown of her counterpart's, and she doesn't quite believe what she sees. "Helena?"

"Fancy seeing you here," Helena smiles a gentle smile that drips of the same nostalgic fondness that's been lulling her to sleep every night for the past year, induced by the recordings of their reproductions of eleven years ago.

Myka smiles back. She really can't believe that Helena is here, because this is the middle of nowhere (Myka _chose_ this place because it's the middle of nowhere), and Helena never struck her as the middle of nowhere kind of person. In fact, last she had heard of her, she was pegged to be next in line to head the R &D department of that mega tech corporate she worked for when they met all those years ago in DC. But this was, what? Her mind works quickly through its filing system, six years ago?

A lot can happen in six years, she reminds herself. A lot can happen in a lot less, because Myka is living testament to just how much can change in much less than half that time.

"What are you doing here?" Myka asks with a surprised smile. A pleasantly surprised smile.

"I could ask you the same," Helena retorts in her usual, cocky manner. That's just about all she can manage right now – her default setting of slightly aloof, slightly arrogant confidence. She didn't expect to find Myka Bering, of all people, in a small town in the Mid-West. She thought Myka would be heading some kind of elite team in the Secret Service or some other secret government organisation, possibly the same one Irene Frederic is heading in Helena's imagination.

As nostalgic as she is about her time with Myka, and – if she is honest – as much as she had been using Myka Bering as a sort of yardstick against which all of her lovers have been measured since their encounter, she never entertained the possibility of seeing her again. It just seemed like a highly improbable thing to happen, and Helena doesn't indulge herself with such improbabilities.

"I moved out here a couple of years ago," Myka answers, slightly backfooted initially, but then she remembers who HG Wells _is_ , what she is _like_ , and she's not feeling like Helena is being suspicious or offensive with her detached tone, she's just being _Helena_. As she recalls these details about the dark-haired engineer, her memory dredges up every single aspect of her knowledge of Helena Wells, Myka's mouth dries up a bit and her heart beats a little bit faster because her knowledge of the woman in front of her is quite deep and quite intimate.

"I work not far from here," Helena offers and gestures towards Main Street with her thumb absently, because she is very much focused on taking in Myka, eleven years on: her face is a little softer, her eyes are a bit brighter. While she still has the posture of a figure skater, she's not so rigid in her stance. Helena considers that the fact she isn't wearing a suit, or a gun on one hip and a badge on the other probably helps. Helena reminds herself to look back up from Myka's hips to her eyes, hoping she didn't linger too long on those curves, because she can't help but wonder how differently they’d feel now to eleven years ago. "Fancy that," she utters, and she's not entirely sure if the musing is about the last thought that went through her mind, or the actual conversation she and Myka are having.

"Wow," Myka exhales through a bright smile, "I did not expect this," she says and shakes her head, because that's pretty much the only thing that keeps flashing in her mind, between her memories of HG Wells: working late nights at the DC field office, going back to her apartment or to Helena's executive suite, talking about / playing / recording music, and almost instantly falling in… and Myka's mind stops for a second, because she was thinking "-to bed", but the romantic in her, the part of her that comes alive through music and pretty much nowhere else finishes that sentence entirely differently. "Uh," Myka winces and shakes her head again because this isn't the time or the place for her to start thinking about love, "do you want to…" she points awkwardly towards a table.

"I'm terribly sorry, Myka, I can't," Helena's accent is stronger now and Myka knows that means a polite and slightly evasive rejection is underway. "I'm afraid this was but a quick break from an awfully busy day."

Myka nods with a tight smile and a short huff because some things don't change. "Still working all hours, then?" she asks.

"Yes, but with some greater flexibility these days," Helena smirks. "And you?"

Myka stammers a bit, "Uh, yeah," she chortles, because running her own business is not really a nine-to-five deal, and even though she isn't working with pay today, she has work _stuff_ , a pile of paperwork to sort through, if she were to be paid at any point in the near future, "but in a different setting," she chooses to be as vague as HG.

"Oh?" Helena sniffs the bait Myka dangles in front of her.

Myka laughs heartily and Helena's jaw drops because she almost forgot how intoxicating that sound is, how tantalising the sight. "That's not really a story for the middle of an awfully busy day," she jabs through a smile.

Helena narrows her eyes at Myka, reminded that Myka is a peer. Myka is – quite possibly – the only peer Helena ever had. Everyone else in her life was, usually, slightly less smart and slightly less capable and slightly less _anything else_ than she was – if she may say so herself. So she tightens her smirk and adds heat to her glace into Myka's eyes, "I'll bite," she parries a jab in return, "would you like to catch up some time?"

Myka's smile turns into a smirk, because she missed this. She missed these little fencing matches she used to have with Helena in the six weeks they spent together. "Next Friday?"

"The last of the month?" Helena confirms.

Myka nods. "There's a bar called The Voodoo Lounge over on Fillmore. 8pm?"

"I look forward to it," Helena flicks her hair over her shoulder subconsciously, realising what she'd done after the fact, as she feels she needs to be more flirtatious than she has been.

"Me too," Myka notices the hair thing, and in her mind Helena is definitely putting her game on, and she wonders what Helena thinks this date is for. A _date_ , she pauses her own thoughts. It's been a while.

After a handful of awkwardly silent seconds Helena turns towards the door and Myka turns to a nearby table, relieved to rest the reams of paper onto a surface that's not her arm. She exhales as she starts ruffling through the forms and she reaches for her coffee when that slender hand is in her line of sight again. Myka looks up.

"These are yours," Helena smiles and lets go of Myka's keys and sunglasses atop the pile of thinly shredded, compressed and bleached trees. "See you next Friday," she husks and hurries out the door.

Myka gives up all pretence of reading the guidelines for writing a business plan for the bank in the whole of 4 minutes because her encounter with Helena keeps playing on her mind. She reunites the document with its kin on the tabletop, sinks into the small coffee-shop armchair and drinks her coffee.

Her gaze is fixed mid-air, halfway between where she sits and the door to the coffee shop. She spins the near empty cup between her fingers slowly as her mind does that thing that made her a top investigator: reviewing details, images, knowledge (central and peripheral) - no matter how small or insignificant.

She scans every single detail of her six weeks with Helena: from when they were first introduced, the banter-come-insult-filled first hours (how they measured each other, tested who of them is smarter, cleverer, more capable); through to the last hours they spent together, parting the way they agreed and arranged to part – no fuss, no overly emotional farewells, no driving the other to the airport, or leaning sadly into a window of a cab or an apartment, watching the other get farther and farther away.

Myka smiles at the naivety of that parting, with its near-surgical precision, almost the direct opposite to what their six weeks together had been. How it was discussed two nights before Helena's scheduled return to Detroit. The both of them curled up on Myka's sofa, messy and sated and sweaty and careless; two highly intelligent, independent and self-sufficient women who had found something in the other for the six weeks they shared, but knew that there was too much for either of them to lose if they were to leave their lives in favour of chasing a fling, or even a love story.

Now that the coffee shop is nearly empty, Myka can spend a bit more time thinking about their time together and be honest with herself that her time with Helena was a six-week-long binge on being in love. As amazing as it was, she still believes that how they parted ways was the best thing to have done, because Myka had a stellar career for the seven years that followed, seven years she would never have had if she got transferred to the Detroit field office. And those years still matter to her even though things with the Secret Service did go sideways in the end.

To keep herself from thinking about her final year with the Service (when Sam went back to his wife and the terrible months that followed, when budget cuts were announced and the order was given for her to decimate her team; when her mother fell ill, when she decided to remove herself and name Pete as her successor) she thinks about the Helena she met earlier today. As she files those details away, she marvels at how little someone could change and can't help but wonder whether Helena had changed _at all_.

Eventually, the coffee shop owner asks her politely to leave and she makes her way home in a slightly dazed state.

 

* * *

 

 

Helena, on the other hand, takes nearly three hours to lose her concentration and gives up working in favour of listening to all three reproduction sessions from her first week with Myka. She recalls how awful she had been to agent on that first day, and how awful Myka had been to her in return. In hind sight, she's convinced that the only reason Myka suggested they go out for a drink at the end of that unpleasant day was so Myka could get her so drunk she would have been incapacitated the next morning.

Helena smiles at the memory of that night, how a game of musical trivia (which was aimed to settle which of them knew more, knew better) turned into a heated discussion, then a heated argument, even thought they were in complete agreement with each other. She recalls how – when they bid goodnight to each other – Myka nodded drunkenly at Helena and said something along the lines of "you're a barrel of laughs, Wells, when you're not trying to show yourself up to everyone" to which she responded an uncharacteristic and laconic "takes one to know one" and that's the last she remembers of that night.

The following day they were discussing Led Zeppelin over lunch, where they shared thoughts about the production of the tracks in Houses of the Holy and how they would each do it differently. D'Yer Mak'Er was the first song they tackled in Myka's home studio that evening, and it was daylight by the time they were putting the finishing touches to The Song Remains The Same.

The night after that, they stripped David Grey's White Ladder. The night after that, they redressed Tracy Chapman's début album. The night after that they kissed and fell asleep in each other's arms in Helena's executive suite. The night after that they got into Myka's bed and didn't get out until Monday morning forced them to.

Helena recalls the worst conversation they had, a week before Helena was due to complete her secondment at the Secret Service, the conversation in which they both admitted to having felt something _special_ , and with the same breath admitting to being driven and focused and not really willing to stop everything in order to test just how _special_ that _something_ is.

Maybe that's why today happened, what next Friday is for, Helena ponders, maybe this is the reason she wound up at Warehouse Records' oldest studio _here_ , rather than in one of their flagship studios in New York, Vancouver or San Francisco. Then she laughs at the silliness of the notion of fate or Karma or whatever, and chides herself for being a romantic fool.

 

* * *

 

 

Claudia is late when she walks into the B&B on Thursday night. She's late enough to have missed the signup sheet and hasn't brought her guitar anyway. She is in a bad mood. Artie hasn't seen her like this in five years, not since she turned sixteen and decided she had had enough of The System, of foster families, of schools. The lot.

Her lack of energy and practically ghost-like appearance worries him so much, that he leaves his eternal post behind the bar and comes around to usher her back behind it with him.

He places her on a tall wooden stool he usually leans against and she slumps into it, her shoulders collapse in, head hanging limp, her chin touching her chest. She sits there for a long while, through the dull and monotonous set of Marcus Diamond, the very same set he plays every third Thursday of the month, the same set she always does _something_ to – whistle or harmonise or commentate – because it's so samey and repetitive, it kills her just a little bit every time he plays it on stage.

But Artie determines that there is nothing left in Claudia for Marcus to kill. The young musician is beyond wits end, and is much closer to laying at despair's door. He raises his arm to wrap her in a fatherly hug, but thinks she seems too frail and fragile and the last thing he wants is to break her. So he makes as though he's just stretching and lands his palm on his rag, and he picks it up to deflect the missed intent.

The only way Artie knows how to comfort people who don't talk is to give them their usual, which often means drink and food. Attempting to judge Claudia's general state, he's not sure what he should and shouldn't give her.

He's also not sure of her financial state. Claudia is – after all – a punter, and Artie knows better than to take pity on punters like that, because heaven knows that if he didn't, he'd have been out of business a long time ago.

But this is Claudia, he's known her since she was a little girl and he can't just stand on the side lines and let whatever it is that's running her down take its toll. So he flags Trey over and whispers a command in his ear to fix Claudia her favourite and he goes back to the bar and cracks open a Coors Light and puts it in front of slumped redhead.

Marcus Diamond finishes his set and walks off the stage and Claudia grunts loudly. Trey leaps back on stage to introduce the next act, an odd duo consisting two women, one in her fifties and one in her twenties who sing bizarre folk tales; and runs back down to bring out Claudia's club sandwich and fries.

"Thanks," she mutters under her breath, barely having moved, "but I can't have that."

"Why not?" Trey's brown eyes widen and he looks like a lost puppy, "It's your favourite. I just made it for you."

She musters up some energy and looks up to him, flings her arm over his shoulder, "You are too sweet, Trey Lore," she says, "but I have no way of paying you for that."

"That doesn't matter, does it?" he looks at her, trying to cheer her up. "Does it, Artie?" he glances at his boss, who stands behind her breathing noisily through his nose.

"It doesn't matter today," Artie answers as he walks around Claudia to stand next to Trey. "Please eat."

Claudia picks up a chip tiredly and places it in her mouth. She chews languidly and swallows hard, as if the chip was made of cardboard. "Thanks," she whispers her gratitude.

The odd duo finishes their odd set, and Trey leaves Claudia and Artie to MC the rest of the evening. Artie uses that break to bend down and seek Claudia's lackluster gaze. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks her cautiously.

"I got fired," she answers all too quickly with a harsh exhale. "I got fired because I told my boss to not upgrade the server until after business hours, but he insisted, and I told him I wasn’t gonna because this would wreck a day's work for every single client connected to that server, and he said I should re-route them, and I told him I can't do that with live connections without data loss and I won't do it unless we got the clients offline, so he went and did it anyway, and now three clients are threatening to sue, and his boss came down on him like a ton of bricks so he, the pillar of honesty that he is, blamed me, and now I'm fired and that stupid-ass-of-a-life-form-that-doesn't-deserve-to-be-called-human is probably going to name me in their lawsuit, and I won't get paid this month, so I won't be able to afford rent let alone the lawyer that I may need to hire, which means I will probably never be able to pay you for this food!" she picks up another chip only to throw it back onto the plate at the end of her speech.

Artie nods once to acknowledge Claudia's distress. He hates seeing her like this, not only because it's not comfortable for him that another human being is _being human_ so close to him, but because it's Claudia that's being human and he has come to love her like family. So he sighs as he thinks about her rent, and needing a lawyer (which he reckons is probably unlikely to happen) and needing to eat and drink.

Then he sighs again when he thinks about the pile of bills he has on the desk in his office, and he thinks about the B&B's bank balance, and he thinks about a job offer that landed on him – by surprise – from his ex boss' friend, or PA, or whatever Leena is, and he thinks about whether or not he should change his life to help Claudia with hers.

He scratches his eight o'clock shadow (that's more of a stubble by now) and sighs a third time. "How about you work here for a few weeks," he mumbles, "and I'll talk to Vanessa about your rent being delayed this month."

Claudia answers with a sigh of her own and looks up at him through her bangs. She feels awful. She knows that the B&B is unbelievably tight on cash, she knows that Artie plays a game of Star Trek TNG Chess with every single creditor the B&B has, she knows that it was only because of him that Vanessa let her rent the room above her garage to begin with, when she didn't even want a tenant. All of this makes her feel like the biggest pain in the rear of any creature – real or fantastic – that had ever lived on the earth or in the minds of those who inhabit it. "I can't ask you that, Artie. That's too much," she says, defeated.

Artie smiles. Or at least Claudia thinks he smiles, because his expression looks only half like what it looks like when he winces, but his eyes are warm and his cheeks are just a little bit softer than usual.

"Sounds like it's about right to me," he answers in a warm, fatherly tone, "now eat your dinner," he walks back to the middle of the bar and starts serving the punters who came to listen to the best open mic line up in the whole of the Great Plains.

Claudia picks up another chip, then another. By the time she finishes eating her fifth chip, lyrics are starting to take shape in her mind, and melody echoes in her ears like a rushing tide, and there's a beat, and orchestration. She fumbles for a cocktail napkin and a pen from under the bar and she scribbles notes (in words) and notes (in music) for one song.

By the time she finishes her portion of chips, there are drafts for two new songs; by the time the she downs the sandwich, there are two more.

It's nearly 10pm and the last act of the night walks on to the stage. It's a girl – much younger than Claudia – and she is holding on to a guitar like it's a rifle and she’s about to run over the parapet she's absolutely terrified. Claudia can tell because she's been there. The girl's voice trembles as she sings Firework by Katy Perry, and then her fingers slip on the strings and she loses two bars' worth of chords during a quiet rendition of Demi Lovato's Neon Lights.

Claudia _really_ feels just how scared this girl is and completely forgets that she, herself, feels like crap. The girl walks off the stage after two songs and it takes Claudia a handful of seconds to realise (and appreciate) how far she, herself, had come over the past five years.

She looks down to the scribbled cocktail napkins and a small, mischievous smile creeps up the corners of her lips, because she knows the answer to Myka's question.

It then strikes her that it's a Thursday and Myka should be here, so her head snaps up to where Myka usually sits, but there is no one there.

And suddenly Claudia has a new purpose.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 5: a date? Can we call it a date? Let's call it a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the disruption in our scheduled programming. Some life stuff happened, but I hope to be back on track with a weekly update.  
> Hope you enjoy this one, have a grand weekend, all.

On the last Friday of the month, at five to eight in the evening, Myka paces from where she parked her car in the back ally at the side of the Voodoo Lounge to the front of the establishment. She smirks to herself, because the word "establishment" was made up for places like the Voodoo Lounge, because what it is established for in the eyes of the people who frequent it is definitely not what it was established for in the eyes of its proprietors.

At two minutes to eight, Myka is leaning against the doorway of the Lounge, watching a few of the regulars walk in, some with instruments, some without. They nod silent hellos to Myka who nods back. For the dive bar that it is, The Voodoo Lounge has a unique sense of community. But it's not the kind of community the B&B has. Voodoo oozes the kind of character that Rock'n'Roll lichen feed on, which usually ends up in a good show for a Friday night open mic.

Myka picked Voodoo on purpose. It's rowdier and more anonymous. She also picked this place because she wouldn't take HG to the B&B. Not yet, anyway. B&B is a kind of cosy home-from-home for Myka, and she's not sure she wants to take HG to her home. She's not sure if HG wants to be taken home either. Plus, Artie and Trey will have asked too many questions, which will have distracted her from her from tonight’s real purpose: a recon mission.

So the Voodoo Lounge is the safest bet.

At two minutes past eight, Helena turns the corner to Fillmore street, her silhouette cuts through the hot air that pours from the alley she’s crossing, propelled by vents of nearby restaurants and hotels and Myka smiles at that sight, because it brings very sweet, very pleasant, very pleasurable memories to the front of her mind. She pushes herself off of the doorway and takes an authoritative stance across the sidewalk, knowing Helena won't miss her this way.

Helena, who was fiddling with her car keys, looks up to see Myka's tall and lithe frame blocking the sidewalk next to what she assumes is the door to the Voodoo Lounge. A small smile creeps up her lips, because it's like no time has gone by, and nothing has changed, and this is Washington DC, 11 years ago.

Helena walks until she is less than a foot away from Myka and looks up. "Good evening, Agent Bering," she declares in a low voice and though a sly smile.

Myka looks down into her eyes and her smile mirrors the slyness of Helena's. "Not anymore," she whispers. "Shall we?" she leans and pulls the heavy door open, holding it for Helena to walk in.

Helena obliges and Myka is hot on her heels. There's a table, roughly in the middle of the room, and Helena leads the way to it. They sit down and a short, skinny waitress asks them what they want to drink.

"I'm afraid I'm driving," Helena’s accent thickens, "so it will be some tonic water for me, if you please."

Myka raises and eyebrow, because this isn't the Helena she recalls. The Helena she recalls would make a point of closing in on any limit imposed on her, because in that Helena’s mind, the sole purpose of boundaries is their thorough examination and occasional breakage. She files that observation somewhere in her mind. "I'll have a whiskey sour, please," she smiles at the waitress.

"We're out of lemons," the waitress replies with what could well be The Voice of Disinterest.

Helena darts an amused look at Myka.

"Okay then," Myka mulls the options over, "I'll have a single scotch, then."

"We're out of scotch," the waitress says identically, sounding more robotic than a human.

Myka returns Helena's amused look and chuckles, "A single bourbon?"

"I'll see what we have," the waitress sighs and walks away.

Myka smiles awkwardly at Helena, who smirks back at her.

"Don't say I don't take you nice places," Myka sits on the chair next to Helena and angles it so she could easily look at both Helena and the stage.

"Truly delightful," Helena's smile hasn't shifted.

"I really like this place even though it's a bit of a dive," Myka leans in.

"It has a certain quality," Helena starts, "a certain air…" but is stopped by sharp feedback emanating from the darkened stage which lights switch on a second after the ear-piercingly, high pitched noise silences the room.

"Welcome," a low timbre voice announces, "to the Voodoo Lounge's Friday Night Open Mic," a smooth, upper-class, alcohol-singed British accent hums like an old song from the stage as a small featured, middle-aged man walks onto it. His words sound almost as rehearsed as those of the waitress. "Let's go through the rules for this evening before we get started, shall we?"

He goes through how the Open Mic works at the same time the waitress brings their drinks over.

"Is that who I think it is?" Helena asks incredulously.

"If by that you mean 'is that James MacPherson', then yes," Myka answers and leans back into her seat.

"I wondered where he'd gone," Helena muses.

"Right here," Myka picks up her tumbler and gestures to the small stage, "The Voodoo Lounge on Fillmore."

Helena takes in the man on the stage. He looks a little worse for wear compared with the photos bearing his image, photos that cover the walls at the Warehouse. In the photos, his jet black hair is arranged in fashionable styles correlating to the decade in which the photos were taken, from a slick quiff in the 50s, to ruffled and even spiked hair in the 80s. In the photos, his eyes are bright and mischievous; spiteful, even. In the photos he stands tall. Defiant.

The man on the stage sports a shabby, unkempt black mane, strewn with grey streaks. His eyes are dim and sunken, his shoulders slumped. Helena’ cannot help but liken the state of Warehouse Studios to that of its founder and her heart sinks.

Myka notices the shift in Helena’s mood, which she assumes is because of James MacPherson’s apparent deterioration. "I didn't realise you were a fan," Myka interrupts Helena's train of thought.

"Oh, not a fan as such," Helena finds it difficult to turn away from the stage, "I have always harboured appreciation to his trailblazing techniques and spirit of ingenuity," she begins, but her mind is distracted again by his fading features.

Myka looks at the stage, where Helena is looking, and notices MacPherson’s trembling right hand which he keeps tucked into his jacket's pocket, a jacket that is a little too frayed to be worn anywhere, really, not even on the stage of the dive bar he owns. She wonders if Helena notices these details as well. "I sense a but?" she entices Helena to complete her thought.

"But it was mostly his work with Arthur Neilsen that attracted my attention over the years," she recalls other pictures on the walls of the Warehouse, with Arthur and James and the Stones, and Zeppelin, and Sabbath, and Bowie, and Lou Reed, and Heart, and Fleetwood Mac (original lineup and the one they were later famous for), and the Ramones, and Kate Bush, and the Clash, and the Eagles. It's as if there wasn't a single rock act in the 70s and 80s that didn't set foot at the Warehouse, that didn't have a path crossed with Arthur and James.

Thinking about this history and seeing James now, Helena is awash with a sense of responsibility to Warehouse Records and Warehouse Studios, and she's humbled and proud in equal measures. When she approached Irene Frederic a year ago with a request to work with The Warehouse, she had every intent to devote her career – her life, even – to the studio and the label, to turn them back into what they used to be – the harbingers of true musical craftsmanship and innovation, almost as if there were a touch of magic involved.

Helena’s sense purpose is rekindled. All the frustration she'd experienced over the past few months with her collection of musical mishaps vanishes as if it never were, and all she wants right now is to get back to the studio and find that next act that will reignite that magic.

But then Helena remembers that she's here with Myka Bering, whom she hadn't seen in over a decade, and was rather excited at the notion of seeing again a few hours ago. So she turns back to Myka, wearing her notorious smirk.

Myka narrows her eyes a little as she looks at Helena. She feels how distracted Helena is to a point she doesn't really feel like she wants to be there. "You know, their studio is a couple of blocks from here," she says before taking a sip of whatever amber-coloured alcoholic drink the waitress cobbled for her, which Myka then determines if cheap bourbon.

Helena's smirk widens. She knows, alright.

"It's a real shame about that studio, if you ask me," Myka throws, off-handedly and turns her gaze to the stage, where the first act of the night is setting up.

"Why is that?" Helena sips her tonic water.

"They kinda got stuck in their ways," Myka shrugs and picks up her tumbler. "They didn't pay attention to the Pixies and the Alternative revolution and Seattle Sound, and they just got a little lost, I think." Myka chooses her words, well aware that these words will press some of Helena's buttons, who does not share Myka's affinity to the Alternative scene of the late 80s and early 90s, and – unlike Myka – doesn't place the Pixies on the pedestal of all-things-holy-to-music.

"Are we having this conversation again?" Helena asks cockily, brushing dust away from the well-formed arguments she uses whenever someone brings up the influence the Pixies had on rock music.

Myka is pleased she managed to gain Helena’s attention. "I know we don't see eye to eye about the Pixies," she shakes her head, "but they _had_ such a pivotal influence on what the 90s sounded like."

"There certainly was a cultural resurgence of 'real' music in the late 80s, as a response countering not only large-scale manufactured pop and big-hair rock of the day, but also to the political landscape in the USA and Europe at the time. I am still yet to be convinced that the power The Pixies' music wielded was not disproportionately augmented by the wider socio-political context," Helena summarises her argument because she and Myka have been here before, and frankly, Myka should know better than to bring _this_ up _again_.

Helena is aware that her temper just might begin to show, so when Myka’s response is a smile of a cat that got the cream, Helena is relived (and intrigued, because she didn’t realise she played into Myka’s intentions; she didn’t realise Myka had intentions towards which she was being played, so she decides to pay better attention, but her thoughts keep meandering to James and Arthur and The Warehouse).

Myka's smile tenses. Her own response at this point used to include a lecture of similar length about how the power and influence of any musical act is always contextual to its time, culture and socio-political backdrop, from J.S. Bach to David Guetta. But she chooses to say nothing. This is an argument they've had a few times before, and there is no winning here.

But Helena's response was all Myka was after: it was sufficiently articulate and adequately cold; a testament to Helena’s mind being elsewhere.

She picks up her tumbler and contemplates what happened to Helena since they met a few days back, at the coffee shop, and she could have sworn there was something there that sparked their curiosity in one another.

A silence settles between them like a stranger as the first act of the evening starts their set, a local named Sally, who plays her own material, a contemporary and eerie concussion of folk, country and rock. Helena and Myka watch her intently.

"So you are no longer an agent," Helena states rather than asks.

Myka turns to look to see that Helena is still looking at Sally on stage. She considers whether Helena's politeness is designed to mask remoteness or interest. Her detail-seeking mind takes measure of Helena: the flare of her nostrils, the angle of her lips, the tension at which she narrows her eyes, the colour of her cheeks, the pace of her breath and her pulse (which – yes – she can notice pushing gently against the curve of Helena’s neck).

The best conclusion she reaches is a vow to never hook Helena to a polygraph (or, for the same reason, never play a hand of poker with her) because she can be beyond reading when she sets her mind to it.

"Uh, I'm not," Myka thinks about the level of detail she wants to divulge, given the ambiguous signals she's receiving. "I left the Service almost two years ago," she says and tries to gauge whether Helena, whose gaze is still fixed at the stage, is showing an interest. "What about you? Still inventing ways to capture and manipulate sound?"

Helena's mind registers the question, but is still busy with the conflict between her invigorated passion for her work and her eagerness to get reacquainted with Myka Bering:

On one hand, there is the satisfaction she derives from her professional life, and it takes up a lot of her attention at the moment with her very-recently renewed sense of commitment to her job. She had been so absorbed in crafting the sampler for Irene, she forgot how important it is for her to actually go out and listen to acts in places like the Voodoo Lounge.

On the other hand, there is the satisfaction she derives from her personal life, which had always been less important for Helena, and even more so of late. Since she took over the R&D department in her old job, then left, then took her position at Warehouse Records – Helena Wells had little time for a life. This was okay, in her mind, because Helena Wells had deemed herself to be nowhere near as good at having friends as she was at her job. She isn't anywhere near as good at having lovers (none of whom she manages to keep for more than a sprinkle of weeks) as she is at making music; as she is at making music-making better. So, almost by default, she gave up on having a meaningful personal life, and what she does have in the ways of friendship and love chances upon her.

Myka, she had hoped when they _chanced_ upon each other at the coffee place, would be a fine distraction (or inspiration) for a while. After all, she had been a marvelous distraction/inspiration when they first met. So when Myka asks her about her current work situation, she's not sure she wants the conversation to go down the route of dull, usual, _date_ conversation. Helena wants something more exciting and less hard-work.

"Not quite," she turns to Myka briefly and returns her focus to the stage, "I've decided I wanted to learn more about how my inventions are used, so I left in favour of working with recording studios," she then turns to look at Myka and sees that Myka isn't looking at the stage. Myka is looking at her.

There is something about the casual way Myka looks at her. Something about her eyes and how they sparkle; something about her cheeks, as the bourbon paints them in a faint shade of pink; something about her lips that have the dark singe of alcohol on them, lips that she thought were smiling before, but are less so now.

There is _something_ about the woman next to her that tugs at Helena's heart and grinds her long, heavy cargo-train-of-thought to a slow and squeaky halt. There is something about Myka that _forces_ Helena to give her her full, undivided attention. As best she can, anyway.

Helena takes a breath and thinks quickly about what she would really like to hear from Myka. "Work is rather dreary a topic, darling," she acknowledges Myka's presence with a tip of her glass towards the former agent. "I want to hear about your musical exploits," she flicks her hair behind her shoulder and notices Myka noticing.

Myka swallows thickly before her mouth falls open in a small laugh, because only HG Wells would start a conversation she didn't want to have, with the intention of diverting it to the personal all too quickly. "Not much," she shrugs, "a few test recording sessions here and there, but nothing substantial."

"Do tell more," Helena presses and leans towards Myka, "feed my imagination with your creativity. I have missed it so," she is flirtatious and confident as ever.

Myka isn't sure where this is headed, but decides to play along anyway. "I stumbled upon a dark folk artist from Scotland about two years ago," she looks into her tumbler, "absolutely unique in her songwriting, a real talent," Myka muses fondly, "and we wound up doing some work together on what ended up being a couple of EPs."

"Scotland?" Helena sounds surprised even to herself.

Myka smiles and nods. "I caught her by sheer chance in North California after an assignment. She was on a kind of traveling folk circus on the west coast."

Helena looks intrigued, so Myka continues.

"And then she introduced me to her boyfriend, who is a Canadian folk musician, much more traditional in his art and a real craftsman," she sips her bourbon with a sharp wince as it clears her throat, "and I wound up on the road with him and his bluegrass band for about 6 months as a technician and produced two live albums for them."

"And that is classed as 'nothing substantial' in your book?"

"You know me, HG," Myka smiles mischievously, "I'm an over-achiever."

Helena huffs a short laugh. If ever there was a quick and efficient way to describe the Myka she'd known in DC, 'over-achiever' is it. Sally finishes her set on stage, and Helena (being Helena) has to comment on what she'd just heard. "Not bad," she gestures towards the stage.

"Not bad at all," Myka agrees, restraining her smile and waiting to hear what Helena will come up with next, because she _would_ have more to say.

"A tad rough around the edges, a slight pretence in the façade, noticeable heavy influence of early PJ Harvey," Helena determines, matter of fact, the way she would have done if she were listening to demos, or out with colleagues from her old job. This is part of Helena's default setting, the setting that makes her the supreme sound engineer that she is, the one that gives her the ability to be a true innovator. She analyses, sorts and files sounds, sources and references more quickly than anyone ever could. Coupled with her unique ability to reverse-engineer almost any noise she can single out (and she can single out just about _any_ noise from any cacophony), she is a one-in-a-billion sound crafter.

Satisfied with her diagnosis, she looks at Myka and grins.

"I caught her last year, you know," Myka is still smiling, hoping to unhinge Helena ever so slightly with this particular adventure, a preview of which she just granted Helena.

"Who?" Helena steps into the trap, unawares.

"PJ Harvey," Myka pushes just a little bit further, knowing full well the deep and personal connection Helena has with PJ Harvey's music.

"I didn't realise she was touring," Helena remains aloof in her response, playing into Myka's lack of story.

"She wasn't," the grin on the tall woman's face widens.

"If memory serves me right, PJ Harvey was recording her album in that installation at Somerset House last year," Helena narrates from depths of her knowledge, referring to PJ Harvey’s Recording in Progress, an art-cum-music piece of work that was open to a select few.

Helena is stuck in her default setting, which means she fails to make the implied connection between her existing knowledge and the knowledge with which Myka endowed her.

Until _just_ now.

Then her jaw drops, and she angles a questioning look at Myka. "You had tickets to Recording in Progress?"

Myka nods silently with a truly impish smirk across her face.

"You went to London to see Recording in Progress?" Helena turns her head fully towards Myka.

Myka nods again and holds up three fingers.

That's all it took to yank HG Wells out of her default setting of cold professionalism. " _Three_ times?" she gasps, "You got to see _three_ sessions?"

Myka nods triumphantly.

Helena turns her seat towards Myka and leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her palms. Within seconds, she is no longer an unattainable ice queen, but a child riveted by their favourite story. "Which sessions did you get to see?"

Myka bends her head to the left, working out a creak in her neck, recalling the three days in her mind. "The first session I saw was two days in, there wasn't a lot of recording going on, just a jam session that sounded more like instrument tuning and sound checking and balancing…"

Helena nods excitedly in front of her, and Myka relishes the attention and power the other woman gifts her without knowing.

"The second one was a week before the installation closed, and they were working on a song, starting and stopping and starting and stopping…" Myka enjoys the memory of standing in darkened room with 30 strangers, sharing the unique experience of listening to PJ Harvey crafting a creation with her band.

She looks at Helena who is eagerly lapping every detail Myka is willing to impart. "But the third one was the coolest," she says, raising both eyebrows, "it was the last day of the installation, and they were playing around with a song they'd obviously finished. Playing it as a slow-y, moody, blues-y thing… then as a faster, harder rock-y style… then Polly sat behind the drums…" Myka's smile and look turn dreamy as she recalls not only the image of Polly Harvey, an inch away from where she was standing, separated only by glass, sitting down to play the drums – gently – and singing her song at the same time; but also the _feeling_ of it. The feeling that this is _it_. This _craft_ is what gets her out of bed in the morning.

Helena's mouth falls open and her eyes shine, as if she is reliving the experience with Myka.

"It was really amazing," Myka concludes with a deep breath.

"How – on earth – did you manage to get tickets to three sessions?" Helena asks after a few seconds of stunned amazement.

"You know what? I really don't know how it happened," Myka still smiles as she lowers her head to meet Helena's eyes. "Maybe because I was using the Secret Service's computer mainframe my connections got priority – who knows. I don't. I didn't question then, I'm not questioning it now."

"Unbelievable," Helena whispers, "I was on that site for a solid hour trying to book tickets, and could not, for the life of me, get a single one." Helena recalls the frustration of refreshing the browser's page, watching tickets to sessions vanish one after the other. Oh, the creative foul language that fell from her lips that afternoon was certainly not fit for a woman of her breeding.

"I knew you'd appreciate it," Myka leans back in her chair as another act takes the stage. "Not too many people in my life have."

"I am not one to be envious of others, Myka Bering," Helena straightens as well, "and certainly not one to admit it when I am. But you've just sparked my green-eyed monster alive," she flashes a smile and looks to the stage, where a young man starts a set of soft-rock power-ballads.

While he plays a pensive version to Oasis' Wonderwall Helena and Myka exchange looks that make Myka feel what she'd felt at the coffee shop, and make Helena feel wonderfully inspired. Then he goes on to The One I Love by REM. Myka has already pegged Marcus Diamond with his usual Friday night set, and rolls her eyes at his borderline-depressingly-Muzak-version of one of her favourite love songs.

She looks at Helena who is probably sharing a similar thought, judging by the expression she wears.

As he nears the end of the song, Helena leans over and whispers "Whatever will be next? Bed of Roses?"

Myka is just a little surprised by Helena's ability to stitch people and song choices together. She'd seen it in action in the past, but it's been a while since she'd seen experienced its potency. "Well done," she responds as Marcus tunes his guitar between the second and third songs of his set.

Then he starts Bon Jovi's ballad and Helena takes a long sip of her tonic water. "I am not sure I can take much more of this," she comments.

Myka strangles a laugh, "None of us can, but that's Marcus for you."

As Helena taken in Myka’s lopsided smile and _something_ passes between them, and she finally gives in to whatever it was that tugged at her heart a few moments ago. She gives in to being distracted and inspired by Myka for however long she could keep her, so she leaves her guard down for now. "You mean you know this act?"

"Oh, yeah," Myka answers after a sip of her drink. "Marcus is an institution. He has an affinity for mainstream, which is kind of boring on any day, but then if something less main-stream-y happens to land in Billboard Top 40, he makes it his mission to make it as mainstream sounding as possible."

Helena grimaces at the thought of insisting that everything sounded the same. "He makes it all sound like manufactured pop, does he?"

"He's _really_ good at it."

"That's awful."

"Why?" Myka looks at Helena with a gentle smile. "He has a superpower. It's kind of cool to have a superpower."

"It's awful because he's encouraging bad habits," Helena smiles back. "Imagine everything sounded like manufactured pop."

"That’s the reason I don't listen to commercial radio," Myka huffs, "but some manufactured pop is good," she presses her tumbler to the table, making a point. "Necessary, even."

"Manufactured pop is like drinking a pint of Redbull after eating a dozen doughnuts," Helena argues passionately, "it gives you an insane rush only for you to come crashing down craving more," she comes alive with exuberant hand gestures that resemble a rollercoaster.

Myka smiles a small grin, because _this_ is the Helena she remembers from 11 years ago. She's been there all along, apparently, only hiding underneath layers of cerebral showiness and artistic commentary. "I happen to really like my extensive Kelly Clarkson collection," she jabs through that small grin of hers.

" _You_ have a collection of Kelly Clarkson albums?" Helena quirks an eyebrow, because the Myka of 11 years ago wouldn't be caught dead with such indulgently questionable musical choices. Much like she wouldn't have been caught dead with a can of Redbull or a doughnut.

"Perhaps," Myka smiles, "digitally," she adds with a whisper. "Have I lost street cred?"

"Not at all," Helena leans back in her seat, "not one bit of credibility lost," she brings her drink up to her lips, contemplating whether she wants to share the thought that passes through her mind with Myka, and she thinks she should. "I've been known to indulge on a bit of Taylor Swift on occasion…" she speaks softly into the glass and takes another sip, through a crooked smile, answering Myka's grin.

A girl who isn't legal to be allowed inside Voodoo finishes an under-confident set on the stage, and Myka’s smile broadens with an idea. A little, wicked idea which will be a lot of fun, if the girl on stage is up for one more song and if Myka read the girl correctly.

"Are you game?" she asks Helena with a mischievous glint.

"For what?" Helena puts her glass down, trying to guess what Myka is up to.

"A little Swifty action," her smile flashes teeth that snare her tongue, and Helena's heart skips a beat, but Myka is already gone and talking to the girl who's about to walk off the stage. The girl nods excitedly, and Myka beckons Helena to come join them.

Helena walks up to Myka and whispers in her ear "What are we doing?"

"Don't read into the lyrics – song choice was the girl's," Myka is practically laughing as she hands Helena the Fender P-Bass that's on the stage. "It's just C, G, D, E minor," she says and straps an acoustic guitar on, "and I’ll bet _anything_ that you know the song.”

"C, G, D, E minor," Helena repeats, thinking through all the songs that have that particular chord progression, goodness, there must be hundreds if not _thousands_ , but she follows Myka's actions – angling a stool on the stage so they are flanking the young girl who is between them yet further up on the stage, by the mic.

Myka leans forward, towards the girl. "Ready?" she asks and the girl looks back at her and nods excitedly.

Myka counts them in and starts strumming a riff which Helena recognises instantly. She chokes a laugh and blushes fiercely because this song is quite possibly Helena Wells' biggest guilty pleasure. Then the girl starts singing – much in the style of Taylor Swift – her take on We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.

Helena works the thick strings of the bass, expertly providing a solid foundation for the bouncy song that's completely stripped of its up-beat production. All the while she's looking at Myka who's looking back at her, and she can't help but share Myka's magnificent smile. When the girl reaches the chorus Myka joins with backing vocals and Helena is smitten, and Myka is equally smitten in return, and for three minutes of sugary, pop perfection, it's 11 years ago at Myka's makeshift home studio.

They finish the song to a somewhat excited crowd and an even more excited barely-out-of-her-teens girl who turns around and beams her gratitude to the both of them.

"Nothing to it," Myka says, almost bashfully, after the girl jumps on her with a hug.

Helena puts the bass back in its stand and smiles knowingly. She really wishes Myka could work with her because this is exactly why Myka Bering will be so spectacularly amazing working with talent, and she's going to be much better at it than she could ever imagine, and much better at it than Helena could ever be.

Then the girl lets go of Myka and jumps over to Helena and gives her a tight hug that takes Helena by surprise. "That was awesome," the girl squeaks, "you so totally rock!"

"Our pleasure," Helena answers, her gaze still fixed on Myka, whose gaze is fixed on her.

The girl skips off the stage and Myka and Helena walk off behind her. Helena gestures for Myka to step down first, and places a hand on the small of Myka's back absent mindedly, a hand that stays there well after they walked off the stage and back to their table.

Myka downs what's left of her drink and places her hand on Helena's at her back, keeping it in place, as she turns to face her. "That was fun," she glows at her musical counterpart.

"Very much so," Helena's is increasingly aware that her blush is still – very much – there.

Myka reaches her fingertips to Helena's warm, red cheek, "What's with the blushing?"

Helena chuckles and leans into Myak's touch, gathering the courage to speak, "Because this was possibly the ultimate indulgence, darling," she says without thinking, which is so very rare for Helena.

Myka lets out a short laugh and looks down at the table, well aware of the blush that's creeping up her own neck. She awkwardly rummages in her jeans' front pocket, pulls out a 20, puts it on the table and places her tumbler on top of it. She looks back up at Helena, firms her touch on the blushing cheek and leans in for a lingering, chaste peck at the edge of Helena's smiling lips.

When she pulls back she looks at Helena: eyes closed, lips only slightly parted, short breaths falling from them. Myka's sure that Helena's lips are darkening with a rush of blood and she wants, god, does she want, to kiss them. But they are in the middle of a bar that's not crowded or distracted enough to allow Myka to comfortably go into this kind of publically displayed affection (if 'affection' is the right word to call whatever Helena has awakened in her).

So she leans in again, placing her lips near where she had them a moment ago and asks, "Can we get out of here, please?"

* * *

 

Myka makes plans to see Helena again shortly after their Voodoo Lounge excursion, but life seems to always get in the way of her plans. Early on Sunday morning she gets a call from her sister, that their father is in the hospital again, and that he’s asking for Myka.

Myka books a last minute flight online, one that leaves her less than an hour to pack and get to the airport. She stuffs clothes into a suitcase in a rush and with noticeable disgruntlement, or at least disgruntlement that would have been noticed had there been someone there to notice.

Once she's in the silent bubble that is her car, Myka appreciates that the noise her head was filled with since her sister's phone call had suddenly stopped. She's relieved, because that noise always picks up whenever she goes to Colorado, or whenever her dad or sister call. That noise is distracting and destructing the worst possible ways. That noise is the rattle criticism that her family had always gifted her: directly (like her dad) or indirectly (like her sister). Both had gotten so much worse since her mom passed away less than two years ago.

The silence in the car drowns that noise almost completely and Myka takes a deep breath. She picks her phone up and texts Artie at the B&B:

Family crap just happened. I'll be away for a couple of weeks. Keep an eye on Claudia for me? Thanks, M.

She brushes the screen of the phone, thinking about what to text Helena:

I'm really sorry, but I have to cancel next week. I've been called back home for a medical emergency. I'll call when I'm back. M.

She shoves the phone into the side pocket of the small suitcase that is associated with her days in the Secret Service as much as it is with going back to Colorado, neither of which she cares to dwell upon as she reminds herself of how much she’d changed in the past two years.

She then starts the car and drives to the airport a little faster than the law allows.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 6: the marvel of people knowing other people works its magic for Claudia; and Leena notices something about Helena.

Claudia spends three solid weeks researching Myka. She looks her up in any way she knows how, on any possible network, dark and otherwise. It's like Myka doesn't exist. She has no online footprint. Claudia doesn't know many people who can live off the grid like this, and those who do - know what they're doing.

Claudia hasn't technically broken any laws yet either, but she reckons she might need to soon.

Steve finds her engaged in some barely legal search techniques when he comes to see her.

"Hey there, byte monkey," he says as he pushes the door to her room gently, afraid to knock something over, but it touches nothing. Usually Claud's apartment is crammed full of equipment, so seeing it utterly deprived of anything musical is out of the ordinary. Seeing her single room (he'll be hard pushed to call it a studio) so tidy feels odd to him. "Claud?" he walks in to the small space, but she's not answering.

He had never seen her place so clean before, so devoid of cables and stands and guitars and amps. He always thought it would look better when it's tidy. Good thing Steve Jinks is not a proud man, because he is the first to admit he is wrong, and never more so than in this case.

He walks up towards her, where she sits at her desk pouring over something between her three computers. He notices she's plugged into the computers in any way possible: her fingers hover over the three keyboards in front of her, eyes glued to three screens that flicker with terabytes of information that she’s downloading, scanning, analysing; she dons a large set of headphones that cover her ears, a small mic boom jots from them towards her mouth, even though she's not speaking. She's also wearing her lucky welder's goggles. That's a clue that the grey-hat techniques she's applying are a very dark shade of grey.

He reaches for the arc of the headphones and pulls them upwards swiftly enough for her to be startled.

"What in the blazing saddle-" she looks up and back, not expecting anyone to be there.

"I can't believe you're still obsessing over this," he lets go of the headphones and Claudia pulls them down, to wrap them around her neck.

"This is data scrubbing on NSA levels, Jinksy," she turns back to the computers, "it's not even like she's in witness protection or something. There is virtually nothing on this woman," she emphasises, " _nothing_."

"And why is this bothering you so much?"

"Because," she starts and she's not sure all of a sudden, now that he's asking. "Because she asked me a good question, and I didn’t know how to answer it then, but I know how to answer it now."

"And she hasn't been back to Artie's?"

She shakes her head and narrows her eyes, typing a few more dubious lines of code into one of her machines.

He nods understandingly, not that she can see him. "I don't think this is good for you, Claud," he says after a while.

"Just two more seco…" she trails off, flicking through some server’s back-end encrypted file system. "Ah ha!" she exclaims rather excitedly, pointing at one of the screens. "Gotcha!" she turns to meet Steve's questioning look with a triumphant smile. "Everybody pays their taxes," she sings, high pitched and happy from a wide, satisfied grin.

Steve catches a glimpse of the screens and his inquisitive look turns panicked in a mere second. "Claudia, what have you done?" he asks as he pulls her wheeled chair backwards and to the side to rip her away from the computers. He kneels by the desk to fully register an open query on what looks like the IRS' internal database, the details of one, Myka O. Bering's tax submissions from 15 years ago.

"It's not like I hacked the current records, this is all historical data which is practically in the public’s domain," she explains calmly.

Steve darts icy daggers worth of a look towards her. "Seriously?" he looks her straight in the eye as he reaches for her WiFi Router, switches it off and then disconnects it.

Claudia's shoulders slump as she groans. "You know how long it took to get in?" she whines.

"You know how long it takes to trace?" he whispers dangerously.

She sighs.

"Claud, you can't do this stuff," he looks at her with the lost patience and compassion of an older brother.

"I want to find her, Steve," she looks at him with the pain and eagerness only Claudia Donovan has in her brown eyes. And he understands her, he really does, but he knows, probably better than anyone (even better than Claudia), that she cannot aggravate the law any more than she already has in the past few years. At the same time, he knows this look, and he knows that there is nothing he can do to stop her from doing ridiculous things to achieve what she wants.

There is nothing he can do except one thing. He can help her; which will have do be done through commonly used, legal means.

He sighs and reaches for his phone, "I know someone who might be able help," he says and his lips curve into a forgiving smile, "and it's just your luck that he's in town tonight."

Her eyes light up. "Are we going out?" her tone fosters excitement.

"We are," he smiles and taps a text message.

"Are we going out to one of _your_ special places?" she's practically giddy with anticipation.

He glances at her. "No. Pete's not gay."

Her disappointment shows. "I'm not gay either, and I positively _adore_ hanging out with yous."

He laughs. "It's not him I'm worried about, it's the other gays…" he quirks an eyebrow and looks down at his phone as a response lands in it. "Get dressed, we're going someplace swanky," he wiggles his eyebrows at her.

She squeals with excitement, pulls the drawer under her bed and yanks out a less faded, less hole-y pair of jeans. She then rushes over to the narrow bathroom at the very foot of her bed.

"So who's Pete?" she asks.

"He's a Secret Service guy I worked with a few times," Steve answers as he switches off Claudia's computers, disconnects them from any and all networks, unplugs them from every possible wire and power source.

"Secret Service!" she exhales in what is either a moment of great realisation or great terror and peeks her head from behind the bathroom's door. "Secret Service people would know how to disappear!"

"Get dressed already," he waves her back into the tiny room. "What do you remember from that record that flashed on your screen for 15 seconds before I disconnected it?"

She vocalises her memory scanning through the few details she can recall. Steve pulled her away before she could see too much. "Surname was Bering," she said, "the federal status, I think, was a government issued-code," she added after a while, and has gone silent again.

Steve could hear her brushing her teeth.

"I think the zip code was Washington DC," she walks back in the tiny room, "that's it."

"It was DC," Steve confirms, "and her middle name begins with an O."

"Oh," Claudia mulls this piece of information over in her mind, and her lips form the shape of the letter.

"Ready?" he asks, and she nods and grabs her black jacket. That jacket makes every outfit smart. Well… Smart _er_.

"Olivia?" she tests.

"Olga," he offers.

Claudia scrunches her nose. "She doesn't look like an Olga," she opens the front door.

"Nobody looks like their middle name," Steve chortles at the ludicrousness of the argument.

She turns around to give him a scolding look. "She doesn't look like she has Russian in her."

"Maybe her parents like Tolstoy," he shrugs.

"Orla," she diverts the conversation back to less useful grounds and gestures for Steve to walk out.

"No to Russian but yes to Irish?" he looks at her as he walks by.

"Could be," she nods with a bottom lip jutting out, "she’s a whiskey drinker."

"Your simple logic astounds me sometimes," he shakes his head. "Oooh!" he comes alive with a new idea and turns on his heels to face Claudia, who's locking the door. "Ophelia!"

She weighs this option as she jiggles the keys in the lock. "Yeah," she drawls. "That could work… ooooor…" she refuses to end the game there, it's far too much fun. "Oooooohdette", she manages to find something.

He laughs and offers something even more preposterous.

 

* * *

 

 

It's been nearly three weeks since she met with Myka, and the initial excitement crashed much like that after a manufactured pop binge. As wonderful as it was to catch up with her, Helena's mind wanders as she queues up demos and soundscloud for an evening of talent-scouting, she won't be investing too much energy in the _possibility_ of the blissful distracted inspiration Myka might provide. Especially not now that she is focused on her mission to reposition Warehouse Records firmly back in the glorious space it previously occupied.

Her phone buzzes with a text message from another distraction, a nice enough architect called Nate whom she'd seen three times over the past couple of weeks. He's suggesting a fourth dinner-and-a-movie, which are just about all the distraction Helena will need this weekend.

And while it is nice enough to be wooed by a pleasant looking, nice mannered man, Helena laughs at her own inability to stop thinking about Myka, no matter how peripherally or subconsciously. She’s thinking about her now because her drink for the evening is a healthy portion of an aged Islands single malt – the kind that cleanses you from the inside, the kind Myka would surely appreciate.

She's just about made herself comfortable on the sofa with her scotch and the Bluetooth equipment that allows her to control the computers in the booth, when Leena walks in with two steaming mugs of something very herbal and very healthy.

"Thank you, but I do not believe I am in the mood for a relaxant of the purely natural variety," she smiles and clears a space on the sofa for Leena to sit.

"Maybe later," Leena answers with a mysterious smile. "You'd be amazed how well the mint compliments the peaty flavour of your scotch."

Helena cocks a slightly surprised look at Leena. "I would not have taken you for a connoisseur of hard liquor," she presses play and a demo begins rolling in the background.

"Oh, there're a lot of things you don't know about me, HG," she laughs.

Helena looks at her. Leena is a truly remarkable young woman, and it is true – Helena did not quite give her the time of day. That is hardly like herself, she thinks, to almost ignore a person, let alone a woman of Leena intellect and beauty. "You're right," she attributes this is to the fact her life had been crazy since she started working at The Warehouse, "I know very little about you," but also to the fact Leena and Irene had always been so close, almost as if they were speaking their own language, and Helena felt it was not her place to learn and use it.

Decode it, perhaps, in her own time. But not intrude.

The first song on the demo ends and the second one starts. Helena isn't too impressed with it, it is under-whelming, over-produced and a little bit old fashioned. Still, she lets every candidate surprise her and she leaves the demo for at least one more song.

"What should I know about you?" Helena asks Leena with a mysterious look of her own.

"I'm the one who got you hired," Leena keeps her gaze forward, sipping her tea in perfect calm and equilibrium.

Helena scoffs lightly and straightens herself on the sofa, fixing her gaze roughly where Leena's is.

They remain silent for a few minutes while the first demo ends and the next one begins.

"I insisted Mrs. Frederic hired you because I get what you're doing," Leena sounds more serious and less mysterious. Less playful.

Helena turns her head to look at her.

Leena turns to return Helena’s stare. "You want to shunt Warehouse Records into the 21st century, Helena, and I know you're the person who could do it."

Helena tilts her head slightly, because this is an insane vote of confidence she didn't realise Leena had in her. "How do you know that?"

Leena purses her lips. "I just do," she says. "Like I just know that things have already started happening."

Helena's questioning look turns to one of bewilderment. "What _things_?"

Leena smiles and shrugs and sips her tea.

Helena isn't sure what to make of this little exchange and slowly turns her head forward again, to stare into space while assessing the demo that's on now. It's good, not ground breaking or unique, but the songwriting is solid, the instrumentation is done well. With a bit of polish and inspiration, this could be a decent alternative/pop/rock act. She makes a note on her clipboard.

They go through two more demos before Leena speaks again.

"You know that talent lives outside the studio, too," she places her now empty mug on the floor near the sofa.

"I beg your pardon?" Helena drifts back to the room, after having drifted away, into deep in thought, driven by the hypnotising concoction of beats in this specific track. She notes that on her clipboard, too.

"Talent," Leena enunciates, "does its thing on small stages in bars every night."

"Oh, I know," Helena answers, still somewhat hypnotised.

"There are at least ten places I can think of, off the top of my head, that would get you out of this studio every single night," Leena teases.

"I know that too," Helena isn’t being petulant, she’s mostly distracted by the music.

"There's Delaney's, the Lizard Lounge, Blue Triangle, Bazaar, The Church, Passim's, The B&B, Silverado, Berkley Brewhouse –"

"The Voodoo Lounge," Helena adds when Leena takes a breath, "I know, I've been."

"You went to Voodoo?" Leena is surprised, because of all the _establishments_ that offer an open stage for artists in town, The Voodoo Lounge is possibly the least refined in location, premises and clientele. But it makes sense to Leena, because there was a noticeable shift in HG, in her energy, in how she worked, that started a few weeks back. Maybe that's when she went to Voodoo and saw James; because seeing James MacPherson now and holding that image against what he looked like – what he _was_ like – when the pictures on the walls of the Warehouse were taken can prove to be quite the motivation.

Helena nods appreciatively, and now she has a very valid reason to think about Myka. Think about playing that silly yet immensely gratifying song on stage, think about how easy it was to just leave her fingers on the small of Myka's back. Think of those green eyes and pink cheeks and soft lips. Think about kissing them at the back alley behind the bar, Myka pressed against her car and Helena pressing against her a little harder.

Leena notices a shift in HG's energy again. It's a shift she'd never seen before – not in HG, anyway – and she smiles broadly.

When Helena looks at Leena she feels a bit disoriented, like having been woken up from a trans. The odd and mesmerising folky drum'n'base demo they were listening to just ended, which snapped her out of the heady and spellbinding memory of Myka trapped between Helena's body and her car.

"What?" Helena senses there is something that Leena isn't saying.

"Perhaps you should visit Voodoo again," Leena teases with a devilish grin and looks back into the near distance as another demo begins.

 

* * *

 

 

"Goodness, Steven," Claudia speaks with a stiff upper lip as the restaurant's host asks her for her jacket and silently ushers them to a quiet table at the back of the house, "one never knew such places existed in this pothole of a town we inhabit." She takes in the opulent detail of the five-star restaurant and thinks about Trey's _'eat well tonight'_ quip, because this place feels like what 'eating well' really is, not that the B &B is bad or anything. "You're not-gay friend has a refined taste, does he?"

Steve shakes his head with a chuckle. "Pete doesn't have a taste as such, because he would eat and drink pretty much anything you put in front of him," Claudia winces at that, "but he has a fondness for steaks and this place is the Best in the West," he finishes with a pun that involves the name of restaurant as they make themselves comfortable on plush, velvet seats.

Claudia grants him a sardonic ‘I know what you did there’ look and sits down. She leans forward so she can whisper to Steve, "You kinda make him sound like a dog…"

Steve laughs, "He kind of is, but in the most endearing, loyal and loveable way," Steve whispers back just in time for Pete Lattimer to join them.

Steve knows Pete from a handful of missions where their agencies crossed paths. Pete, unlike most people, lies very little; and when he does it’s for a darn good reason. Steve appreciated this about Pete from the get go, the fact that he is so honest. And while Pete can be a little overbearing with his bromancing, Steve takes it as the sign of deep and heartfelt friendship that it is.

"Steve Jinks," Pete stands over the table and stretches his arms out for a hug.

Claudia looks at him from her seat and he looks enormous, like an eagle or an albatross or a condor or something, with a wingspan bigger than anything she had ever seen. He also looks very very _solid_. Claudia doesn't know many solid people. Her lips quirk in a slightly wary smile, because she isn't sure what he will make of _her_ , because she isn't solid at all. Claudia, in her mind, at least, is one of the least solid people in the whole universe.

"Hey, Pete," Steve gets up and hugs his friend, and he knows they are equally happy and relieved to find each other whole and happy in a place that is peaceful and calm and isn't at all where they tend to meet. "So good to see you, man."

"And you, buddy!" Pete's eyes smile with genuine warmth that Claudia had rarely seen before in a stranger and she feels a little less wary and a little more in awe. "And you must be Claudia," he turns to her and sounds trusting and respectful and eager to get to know her, and he almost wins her over in less than 30 seconds, and she's inclined to let him, but she takes a hesitant, mental step back, just because that's what she always does.

She stands up from the soft, comfortable chair and holds her hand out to him, "Nice to meet you, Pete," she says, but he swipes her hand aside gently and gives her a hug. Claudia darts a concerned look to Steve over Pete's shoulder, just before he lets go of her.

"Same here," he places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "Steve told me so much about you. I couldn't wait to meet you."

Steve was right. He kind of does feel like a dog: he is endearing and excitable and affectionate in a totally non-creepy way. And it's sweet. And disarming.

"But before we get into all the talking," Pete settles in his seat and rubs his hands together, "we just gotta order because I'm _famished_."

"When are you not?" Steve comments with a smile and they look at menus.

Claudia beams at him. She decides she likes Pete.

They place their orders, not before Pete reassures them that he's buying, and then Steve and Pete careen into catching up about work and assignments and deployments without saying too much in particular because their jobs are so secretive. In between talking shop, Pete takes an interest in Claudia, in her music, he provides a sympathetic ear for her recent job loss story, about her concerns for Steve when he's on a mission, and he tries to ease her mind with _his_ knowledge that Steve is just _so_ good at what he does.

When they do talk shop, Claudia looks at her best friend (and his friend) and can sort of pick up why Steve won't take Pete to designated gay places: for all his charm, Pete relishes attention – a bit like a dog – and is shameless about getting it. Still, he seems like the kind of guy who would be helpful.

Thinking of which, Claudia's mind reminds her of why they are here to begin with, and she waits for a conversation about new gun maintenance regulation to die down so she could ask a question.

"So, Pete," she starts off casually through an awkward smile, "I was wondering if I could ask for your help." Claudia clasps her hands on the table nervously.

"You could, " he half states, "and I can try," half asks, darts a bewildered look between her and Steve.

"Uhm, this will sound weird but I can guarantee it isn't," Claudia is nervous, because she just realises what she's about to ask a stranger to do for her, "I'm not a stalker or anything, but I met this woman who – if anything – was more of _my_ stalker, if I think about it, and she asked me a question, and I couldn't answer it then, but I can answer it now, and it's kind of an important question, but then she disappeared, and I can't find her, and I kinda have this feeling about her, and I know that she—"

"You can stop now, because I think I get it," Pete pulls her out of her verbal haze. "I can't promise much, but I can do my best, okay?" he smiles at her reassuringly.

And Claudia exhales loudly and smiles again.

"Steve and I have had some hairy adventures over the past year, it'll be my pleasure, so really – Claud…" he catches himself. "Can I call you Claud?"

She nods.

"You can breathe now," he finishes his thought and smiles, and looks into Claudia's eyes and she feels safe talking to him. "So what can you tell me about her?"

"How do you know it's a her?" Claudia asks.

"You just said 'woman' and 'she' and 'her'," he looks at her questioningly.

"Did I?" Claudia obviously spoke too much, too fast, and her brain didn't really register any of it.

Pete and Steve nod at her.

"So…" Claudia recalls things that flashed on her screen a few hours ago. "We know that 15 years ago she lived in DC and was probably a government employee," she starts.

"Do I want to know how you know this?" Pete looks at Steve.

Steve shakes his head sombrely.

"DC has many government employees," Pete mutters as he considers how he could go about obtaining lists of employees from 15 years ago from other agencies, and who he knows where, and who of those owe him a favour, and he’s already thinking this is not looking good. "How about something simpler? A name, maybe?" Pete looks at Claudia as he whisks a pen from his pocket and starts jotting down on a napkin.

"Oh yeah! That would be simpler, duh," Claudia is jerked into reality. "Myka."

Pete freezes. "Are you kidding me?" Pete looks at Claudia, then Steve, then Claudia again. 

"No." Claudia drawls cautiously, trying to read him a bit better. "Why?"

There aren't that many Mykas around, Pete thinks, so what are the odds that... "Myka Bering?" Pete leans in.

Claudia's face lights up because Pete just went from guide dog to guardian angel in her mind. "You know her?"

"Pppft, Yeah!" he sputters in mild disbelief, "she was only _my partner_ until the cutbacks a couple of years ago," he reaches for his phone. "Let's see if she's free tonight?" he taps the screen and Claudia’s nerves jut went from zero to eighty-miles-an-hour in naught-point-two-seconds because she didn't even contemplate the possibility of finding Myka so easily, and is definitely not ready to face her _tonight_. She knows the gist of the answer she wants to give her, but she hasn’t quite picked out the exact words she would use.

She looks at Steve and with a shaky smile and he returns an excited one. He’s not helping.

She needs to think about is how to actually say it. She needs to pick words, words that could potentially change her life. _'You know, Myka, it's a hobby until you decide that it isn't',_ but that's a smart-aleck and pointless. _'I've been thinking about it a lot, and I realised—'_ she cuts this one off because it's already rambling, and rambling never ends well. _'I think it's time that—'_ ; _'I just realised—'_ ; _'Funny you should—_ '; and on and on it goes in Claudia’s mind, sentences ending before they even begin as she censors her inner monologue.

"Mykes!" Pete exclaims.

Through the fog of not-even-one-liners that rush through her mind, Claudia can hear the sound of Myka's voice on the other side of Pete’s phone call and she sounds cheerful. Happy, even.

"Yeah, yeah! I am!" Pete's expression exudes excitement as he looks at Claudia, "So I'm at Best in the West…" quick silence; Myka is telling him off by the sound of it, "I know, _mom_ … but anyway, do you wanna come by for dessert?" another quick silence, "Oh, come on, I'm ordering it for you right now," Pete reaches his hand up to signal a waiter. "Perfect! I'll get righ—" yet another quick silence, "yeah, okay, 15 minutes. See ya, partner!" Pete hangs up the call and places the phone, face down on the table like he just moved a piece on the chessboard that resulted in Check Mate. The smile fades from his lips when he notices that Claudia looks like she's about to implode. "Was that not what we were aiming for?" he points at his phone, concerned.

"I, uh," Claudia stutters and swallows, because her mouth is drier than John Cleese's sense of humour, "uhm, yeah," she nods, her mind starts counting down the 900 seconds until Myka turns up, "yeah, sure."

"You look like you're scared, Claudia, are you scared?" Pete is worried. "Is she scared?" he asks Steve.

"She's a little paler than usual, and much quieter," Steve mocks his friend’s uncharacteristic panic.

"You don't need to be scared of Myka," he smiles, "she's a kitten,” he beams, but then turns serious. "Just don't tell her I said that, because she'll punch me," he admits. "She's a kitten with a mean right hook."

"I just don't want to blow this chance," Claudia breathes out and tries to explain to Pete why this matters so much, "because things have been a bit rough, and that's an understatement, since I lost my job, and I know Artie is trying, but…" she sighs to stop the downpour of half-finished thoughts. "I know I can make the music thing work, and she's the first person to really call me up on it."

Pete nods stoically while chewing on the last of his fries. "Plus she has that studio."

Claudia bites her lips tightly because – yeah, of course – Myka would have a studio too, to compliment that label, because one doesn't really go without the other. And she just happens to be a fan. And even if she's the only fan Claudia will ever have, that's perfectly fine. This could still totally work.

"So how long have you known her?" Steve asks.

Pete sighs heavily and counts back the years. "Probably ten years now?" he contemplates the number. "Ten years, going on eleven."

"And you kept in touch after she left the service?" Steve is looking to understand Myka a bit more, feeling the urge to protect Claudia from whatever potential nastiness that may lurk out there.

"Yeah," he nods, "She's a trooper, really," Pete doesn't engage in much thought when he speaks, so it's not a surprise to Steve that he continues talking. "You know, it wasn't an easy choice for her to leave," Pete recalls those days, two years ago, after Sam left her, after their teams got re-shuffled, after she took on Team Lead, which was offered to her fair and square, but wound up being her undoing. "They told her she had to slash the team’s budget in half and the gave her six weeks to do that. So she decided to cut her own job. She quit and rearranged all of our schedules so most of us got to keep our assignments."

"A creative, corporate minded kitten with a mean right hook," Claudia summarises a more accurate image of Myka.

"Impressive," Steve adds.

"Her mom died in between all that too," Pete shrugs. "Leaving was probably the right thing for her to do. I have no idea how I'd have handled it if I were in her shoes."

"How come you never knew Myka?" Claudia asks Steve.

"The first time I ran into this lump here was about a year ago, and he never mentioned a Myka before," Steve eyes Pete with an unspoken question.

Pete smiles sweetly and laughs a little. "I don't like talking about her much, I guess I'm still a little sad that she left, and she doesn't need the bigging up, that one," he looks up towards a tall, slender figure who just entered the restaurant and gets up hastily.

"Pete!" Myka's voice booms from behind Claudia and she feels the blood drain from her face.

Steve leans over and gives her hand a squeeze. "You'll be fine."

Pete leaps over his chair with the agility of a gun dog and – she can only guess – is squeezing Myka in a tight hug. They are laughing, Pete and Myka, and Claudia wonders if Steve and her will wind up like them; randomly meeting for expensive dinners at the odd times they both happen to be at same place at the same time.

"How have you been?" She hears Myka's voice, and it's higher in pitch than she remembers, and brighter than she remembers. But she'd only met Myka _once_ , at a bar, and it was late, and Myka had been drinking.

"I'm peachy keen, partner, you don't hear that much these days, do you?"

Myka laughs again.

"Peachy keen!" he repeats with audible cheer. "I actually have something for you," Claudia hears him say, and before she knows it, his hand lands gently on her shoulder. "Or someone, rather," he gives it a squeeze and Claudia takes a deep breath, "I believe you know one, Claudia Donovan?"

Claudia turns around in her seat and gives Myka a quick, nervous wave.

Myka looks a bit taken aback, but her smile is still there, "I do," she nods slowly, still smiling and still joyful and Claudia convinces herself that's a good sign. "How have you been, Claudia?" she beams down at the redhead.

"I've been…" she thinks about what she says now, because this should be her answer, "meaning to tell you that I don't want it to be a hobby anymore," she looks up at Myka and finds it easier to smile because Myka looks more alert than she did when she saw her last, and in this light (which is pretty much any light outside the B&B, because the light in that bar makes Dracula's Castle feel like the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree) Myka looks kind of sweet and harmless.

And she's smiling at Claudia. Really smiling; a wide, ear-to-ear grin that shows her teeth goes all the way up to her eyes.

"I'm really glad to hear that," Myka replies and joins them at their table.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 7: Myka, meet Claudia; Claudia, this is Myka. Oh, and there's a second date.

Two days after Pete's divine intervention, Claudia is standing on the corner of her street, which may as well be in Winslow, Arizona, because she feels as epic as an Eagles song. It's just before 10am and she is fresh and energised (even though she's been up since 5) and she would never have been able to stand here if she still had that lame-ass job that fired her.

So she takes a moment to appreciate that.

She smiles a small, satisfied smile and rummages through her bag to check she has everything she needs – her laptop, her portable hard drive, memory sticks and a CD – for old time's sake – filled with her music and production notes and raw material.

She leans against her guitar case and takes a deep breath in, then out, then in again, because she's trying so hard to not bounce or break into a Snoopy dance or totally freak out while waiting for Myka to come pick her up. She's just a little bit (okay, she's way) nervous and giddy and excited, and she knows with every part of her corporal being that this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

At 10am Myka pulls by the kerb and gets out of her car.

"Hey there," Myka smiles, pulls her sunglasses off and lays her forearms flat on the roof of the car. "Need any help?"

"I so got this," Claudia says in a low voice that she hopes sounds profoundly cooler than how she feels.

Myka eyes her as she throws the guitar case and her bag on the back seat and can't help the wide smile she has plastered on her face, a smile a lot like the one she had two days ago when Claudia said that she was ready, that she wanted to make a proper break for it.

She gets in as soon as Claudia is in. "I got you a cappuccino," she buckles up and looks at Claudia, "mostly because that's what I was having, but also because I have no clue what the cool kids are drinking these days for their breakfast."

"Neither do I," Claudia answers coolly, Myka's candid geekiness is a lot like her own. "A cappuccino is awesome, thanks," she picks up her drink from the cup holder in the middle console and takes a sip.

Myka puts her sunglasses back on and pulls away. "I should probably warn you about the studio," she says.

"Warn me?" Claudia laughs. "Why? Is it on an Indian burial ground or something?" she chortles while looking out the window, sipping her coffee.

"It's on a farm."

"A what?" Claudia isn't sure she heard Myka correctly.

"A farm. Out of town," Myka says without looking at her. "It'll take about a half hour to get there."

"A farm?" Claudia repeats. That's an odd place to put a studio, she thinks, but come to think of it, kinda cool, too, unless it's a dairy farm, because that smells of spoiled milk.

"Yeah," Myka laughs at Claudia's response, "and cell reception kind of sucks out there, depends which way the wind is blowing."

"Are you serious?" Claudia tries to gauge whether Myka is a practical joker. She hasn't struck her as one, but you never know what people are like.

Myka hums an affirmation.

"That's physically impossible," Claudia states definitively, "Cell waves are not affected by wind."

Myka laughs quietly under her breath. "They shouldn't be, but they are. Short of it is, if you want people to reach you, give them the landline," Myka points towards a vinyl sticker in the middle of dashboard that reads, in bold, red capitals, SUCCESS RECORDS and has a local number listed underneath.

That's handy, Claudia thinks. And cute, and not terribly witty.

"The name's temporary," Myka adds, reading Claudia's mind, "I had to have something on incorporation documents when I set it up. I'm thinking of changing it."

"To what?"

"I don't know," she turns to Claudia briefly with a smile, and Claudia thinks maybe that's something she could help with.

They drive through morning traffic in relative silence. It's not tense or awkward. It's thoughtful more than anything: Claudia is thinking about what she wants to do with Myka today. She wants her to listen to her stuff, home-recorded and live; she wants to play with Myka, if Myka plays; she wants to start recording. Claudia wants to do an awful lot today.

Myka, with her organised nature, thinks beyond today; today is a day to muck about, get to know each other. Myka reckons today is not likely to be productive in the sense that there will be nothing to master by the end of it. And that's alright. Beyond today, however, she wonders just how much material Claudia has, and what would be the best way to go through it all, and then lay it down, and then push it out. And then it's getting too crowded in Myka's mind, and she needs to clear it so she can focus on getting to know Cluadia rather than the detail of making a success of her music. "Mind if I put some music on?"

Claudia tears her gaze from the window and shakes her head silently.

Myka switches on the car stereo that's connected to her iPod, and KT Tunstall's Push That Knot Away begins. Claudia, whose face returns to the window glows with a bright smile. She loves this song, she loves this album and she loves the fact that Myka has this on her iPod in her car; today of all days, right now of all times.

Myka can't see Claudia's face and doesn't know what this song strikes in her at this moment, but this song is one of Myka's uppers and she begins to tap the steering wheel with a mix of the drum beat and the bass line.

As they leave the city and enter the lower, greener suburbs, Serena Ryder's Stompa comes on. Claudia is a bit disappointed it isn't the rest of Tunstall's Tiger Suit, but is equally happy with KT's Canadian cousin and her upbeat-y call for mindful musical moments. Then there's Aimee Mann's Labrador and then Neko Case's I'm An Animal. By this point, the suburbs have become mostly countryside.

"Is this, like, a mix tape?" Claudia asks as Lou Reed's Satellite of Love begins.

"Yeah," Myka hums bashfully and Claudia notices she blushes a little. "It shows my age, I know," she says while checking her mirrors incessantly, a sign of nervousness, "I make them twice a year with songs that capture the time," she speaks, quietly admitting to one of her biggest music-geek tells.

That's just _too_ geeky and _too_ sweet, Claudia thinks, this is definitely the beginning of a beautiful friendship. "I make mix tapes too," she confesses, "just once a year, though."

Myka sneaks a glance at her and smiles. "What're your rules?"

"What do you mean?" Claudia knows _exactly_ what Myka means, but she won't necessarily admit to these too quickly, because her mix rules are downright OCD and it's a little scary for her to reveal them to a person who's still, effectively, a stranger.

"Like, uhm…" Myka pauses to _pretend_ to think. She doesn't need to think about the rules for her mixes. She's followed these rules for the better part of 25 years, and she'll be darned if she forgot them. "Like there must be at least one classical piece in every mix, or that the mix must actually fit on a tape, which means Sides A and B, and 60 or 90 minutes in length."

Claudia's bright smile returns, because she _knew_ it, she just knew there was a reason why this thing with Myka would work, even before they'd started working together, because the level of quirk they share is surreal. This _is_ the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Plus, there's KT Tunstall and Lou Reed on her mix.

"One indie artist to every signed artist, must be 74 minutes or less – to fit on a CD, only two crescendos throughout the whole thing and at least three vintage pieces," Claudia counts her rules out to Myka, and it doesn't feel odd or strange or exposed or OCD. It feels perfectly normal.

Myka grins knowingly at Claudia, and she feels the affinity, the likeness, the familiarity in the familial sense – she shares more kinship with Claudia than she'd ever shared with her own sister.

Then Vance Joy's Riptide starts, and Claudia's taken aback. "Really?" she asks and points at the stereo. "You? Mainstream ukulele? Brutus?" it's funny how quickly she feels comfortable with Myka, that she can banter with her so freely.

"It makes me smile," Myka defends her choice, "it's easy on the ears, easy on the fingers when you play it, and so easy to harmonise to," and she launches into a quick demonstration of adding backing vocals to the track – thirds above and fourths below, and fifths and sevenths, and Claudia is impressed and dumbstruck by how effortlessly Myka overlays insane flavour on something that's so banal. "Am I forgiven?"

"Maybe," Claudia holds this over Myka's head. "Depends on what the next track is."

Myka pulls an awkward face because the next track is likely to cause equal contention: Andro Queen by the Pixies. She tightens her hold on the steering wheel as it starts, and darts hopeful looks towards Claudia, who narrows her eyes, purses her lips and considers this specific Pixies tune.

"You're not convinced," Myka says eventually, "Maybe I need to explain the reason behind the choice, behind the mix?"

"I think I get the mix," Claudia gets a sense of lovelorn-ness from the selected songs, a need to make some _thing_ or some _one_ one's own, "and I totally get how Andro Queen fits here, but I want to know where you stand on the Pixies, because that's kind of a deal breaker."

Myka nods firmly and recalls the endless spirited conversations she'd had with Helena about the Pixies. "The Pixies, I believe," Myka begins the short version of her usual tirade, "are – like the Ramones – a cornerstone, a foundation, an inspiration and a tour de force, without which I don't think we would have had The Foo Fighters or Josh Homme or Rilo Kiley or PJ Harvey," she states confidently and turns the car off the main road on to a narrow path.

"Favourite album?" Claudia pushes.

Myka contemplates this. It's not so straight forward. Doolittle has great songs, but she prefers the skinny, raw "Surfer Rosa."

"Favourite recording?"

Much easier to answer, "There's this demo version of Silver that's just Kim Deal, and it sounds like a folk song from the 1900s, and it's so sad and beautiful and haunting…" Myka trails off, feeling what that track feels to her.

Claudia smiles to herself but says nothing. She's just a little _too_ giddy right now, sitting in a car on the way to a recording studio with a person who could very well have "I was born to be Claudia Donovan's BFF" tattooed on her forehead.

"Do I pass?" Myka teases the redhead after a few moments of silence.

"Yeah, you pass," Claudia smirks and chuckles when Myka sighs noisily in relief.

* * *

 

Helena's keys rattle loudly when they hit the pristine marble surface of her kitchen counter. She places the palms of her hands on the cold stone slab, her head slumped between her shoulders. The cool of the marble rushes through her, carried by her blood stream from her heated palms, up her arms to her shoulders and she prays to whatever-deity-that's-safeguarding-her (if one even exists) that the chill spreads to her chest and her belly because she might combust if it doesn't.

She struggles to understand why she is affected by Myka so much. This was the second time they had gone out. An outdoor concert by the local amateur orchestra this time. Helena had determined them to not be as amateur as their title suggests, because she thought they sounded bloody marvellous.

The marvelousness could have also been augmented by the bottle of Cava and passionate opinions she and her companion shared, about Handel and Stravinsky and Clementi, and Taylor Swift and Kelly Clarkson, and PJ Harvey (because Helena cannot have a conversation about music and not mention PJ) and Kim Deal (because Myka cannot have a conversation about music and not mention Kim Deal) and Bjork and Kristin Hersh and Tanya Donelly and Dave Grohl and Tori Amos and Mark Lanegan, and analogue vs. digital recording, and techniques and gear.

They were so engrossed in the experience and the conversation, time just vanished. Before either of them noticed, it was gone midnight and time to get home, and they – still – haven't even talked about the boring, mundane stuff, like work and living arrangements and what the hell happened since Washington DC.

Then Myka offered her a ride home. Myka had James Blake on her stereo, whose hypnotic, bluesy, dark, dream electronica felt quite intense between them, and by the time they pulled up in front of Helena's building, there was no force on this earth that could reverse their pull into a tender kiss goodnight, followed by more kisses – each more heated than the one before.

Soon enough it was gone 1am and the kisses have grown quite desperate.

Helena was about to ask Myka to come up, but Myka apologised before she had a chance to say anything, whispering through gasped breaths something about an early start and a busy day and having had a great time and how much she would love to do this again soon.

And all Helena could do was touch her tongue to her upper lip, tasting Myka's kisses, and slow her breathing down and nod; even though she wanted to have Myka come up to her apartment to spend the night.

But that will have to wait, it would seem.

So now she is in her kitchen, in the dark, waiting for the decadent furnishing of a modern kitchen to calm her down enough so that she could go to bed and (hopefully) dream about how tonight _could_ have ended.

* * *

 

It takes them no time at all to decide how they work together.

Claud and Myka just sat down and had a long conversation about what they each want and what they each bring to the table, what they each can and cannot do, and where the overlap is, and where toes could be trod on. It was just so easy from Myka to talk to Claudia. It was the simplest negotiation Myka ever ran. That is probably down to this amazing chemistry they have.

Over the past week they've been spending a few hours a day together, going through Claudia's material and preferences, talking about music and influences, playing around with all the instruments Myka has in her studio. It was quite productive and a lot of fun.

Today, though, is a bit of a red letter day, because they are moving Claudia's equipment to Myka's studio in preparation for a concentrated recording effort. It's almost as though they are making their partnership official, and both of them are excited about the fact that in a matter of a handful of hours they will start recording Claudia's material for an album.

Even though she's excited about this, Myka is still a little bit distracted after her date with Helena last night, and she can't quite believe she calls it a date, because it kind of didn't feel like one and kind of did – at the same time.

Helena infuriates her in a way that makes her blush and happy (and a little bit aroused), and more importantly, in a way that makes her anticipate their next conversation. More so now than eleven years ago.

While Claud dispenses instructions and hints as to where all her equipment is hidden in her tiny living space, the back of Myka's mind idly recalls Helena's face from last night – how it lightened with glee, brightened with surprise, tightened with exasperation and reddened with want. Myka's memory constantly goes back to is how Helena sat across from her in her car, her tongue touching her lip, agreeing to another _date_ soon.

Myka's mind keeps going back to how badly Myka wanted Helena to ask her up every time they broke their kiss, even though she knew she would be a wreck today if Helena had asked (and Myka will have gladly complied).

Her mind keeps going back to how, on her drive back (which Myka only partially remembers), she nearly missed the turning to the small road to her own home, because her memory was insisting on reliving the experience of Helena's cool fingertips against her skin, under the hem of her shirt, just above her pants' waistline and her own fingertips combing through dark, silken hair; the experience of lips brushing softly against lips, and teeth tugging lightly at first, and increasingly less lightly as their kisses grew more wanting.

When Claud comments about Myka's apparent cloud-nine-y-ness, Myka's blush deepens.

"Is there a boy I need to know about?" the redhead teases.

"No," Myka is quick to answer, and she already feels like they are a couple of sixth graders having an awkward conversation.

"You know, my friend Steve can tell when people are lying," she huffs while lifting her Mesa Boogie amp and carrying to the doorway. "I picked up a few tricks," she stacks it on top of two smaller amps in the hallway and walks back into her room.

"I can honestly say, Claud," Myka tosses the last of the cables she could find into a large box, "there is no boy."

Claudia examines Myka's body language carefully while collecting her collection of microphones. "There is _someone_ , I can feel it."

"Here we go," Myka sighs and bends to inspect the treasures under Claud's bed.

"What do you mean 'here we go'?"

"Pete has vibes too," she mutters as she reaches for two shoe boxes. They are full of effect pedals. "I always had to fold if there was an 'I can feel it'."

"So I'm right?" Claudia feels vindicated and takes the box of cables out.

Myka sighs again and nods. "She's a –" she stops herself, because she's not sure what label to assign Helena. Friend? Possibly. Girlfriend? Not really. Ex? Certainly not. The best she can come up with is 'former booty call', but that feels like it does her history with Helena a huge injustice.

"She's a what?"

"I met her ages ago and we had a _thing_."

"You devil, you," Claudia elbows Myka lightly as she walks past. "And now?"

"I bumped into her a few of weeks ago in town and we're kind of dating, I guess," Myka answers with small huff.

"And I take it it's going well?" Claudia piles up mic stands she pulls out of from her closet.

Myka sits up and leans on her heels, pulls her hair up to a ponytail. "Yeah, I think it's going well."

"Well, I think it's awesome," the young artist exclaims and goes to the back of the room to where she keeps her guitars. "You should definitely bring her to the B&B on Thursday."

Myka's still not sure about that, about bringing Helena to a place that is so uniquely her own. She spends the time shunting Claudia's boxes and amps and guitars considering why that is. Why, while she is so evidently attracted to Helena and while there is this natural, undeniable pull between them, she's reluctant to bring her in to what is almost an inner sanctum – the place where all her friends are, the place she feels most comfortable in, the place she doesn't need to be anyone she used to be. The place she is just who she is now.

When they head back to the studio, Myka is considerably less distracted and starts talking to Claudia about what she'd like to start with. They go through their thoughts about instrumentation and setups for the songs Claudia chose to record, ones that would either make a fine EP, or if all goes well and even better LP.

Unloading feels like it's taking less time than loading to Claudia, but seeing as both of them are palpably excited about what'll happen this afternoon, it's not surprising that all the manual labour is just an insignificant blip on the radar of what's really important.

Claudia heads in with her Guild and her Telecaster, just about manages to get through the heavy control room doors without causing any damage when she notices a second ergonomic chair behind the mixing desk. It has a small ribbon stuck on its headrest it and a folded piece of A4 paper on the seat.

She puts the guitars down and walks over to the chair, picks the piece of paper up. It reads,

'To Claudia,

Here's to what'll definitely turn out to be an amazing journey.

Thank you for letting me tag along.

Myka.'

Claudia reads the note again and looks at the chair. It's like Myka's. Myka is making her a colleague. A co-producer. A co-engineer. She feels a tug at her heart, the same tug she feels when Steve comes back from a mission. She turns around and sees Myka leaning against the mixing desk, practically beaming.

"You like?" Myka asks.

'Like' doesn't even come close to cutting it, Claudia thinks, but she's welling up, and she doesn't like it when she cries, so she ducks her head and walks over to Myka stiffly and gives her a tight hug.

Myka's smile couldn't be bigger, because this was _so_ the right thing to get Claudia for the first day of recording, and she hugs the young girl who's her first artist and her sort-of-apprentice, but also – and more than anything else – her friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 8: a lot of recording going on, and some borderline flirtatious texting too.

Assertive and rather annoying rays of sunshine wake Claudia up. She grunts and growls, refuses to acknowledge daylight, because it must be far, _far_ too early for her to get out of bed.

She throws a limp hand to the floor, feels for her phone and drags it up. She taps the screen, and crap on a cracker, she was right. 5:49am. This is so early, it doesn't qualify as "daytime", and the rotation of the earth (and consequent rising of the sun) be damned.

As much as she's grown to love Myka's farmhouse studio over the past two weeks, the countryside thing definitely has its flaws. Open landscapes is one of them – no buildings to block the sun as it creeps up over the horizon.

She sighs heavily, knows that – that’s it – she’s awake now and won’t fall back asleep, but still refuses to open her eyes.

The quiet is another countryside flaw. She found that the quiet out here really freaks her out, because it isn't really quiet. It's a flood of nature noises, like crickets and owls and jackals and whatnot added to the complete and utter lack of man-made noise (bar the noise she and Myka make constantly while working on her album, and she *squee!*s in her mind just thinking these words).

She listens to the countryside quiet in this non-daytime time: the rustling of wind through the leaves, a couple of birds hopping in the gutters, a faint and muffled sound of drums…

Wait.

What?

Claudia opens her eyes and draws her eyebrows together. Drums? It is now…she checks her phone again…5:51am and drums are already being played? She listens carefully, trying to determine if she knows the song. She doesn't.

She groggily pushes herself off the bed, drags her feet to the bathroom, brushes her teeth and – rather sleepily – puts on a hoodie. She zips it all the way up (because she bets her ass it's still freezing out there) and slogs her way to the studio across the drive.

The door to the barn is open, and the door to the control room is open, which explains how come the sound travelled. All that comes out of the monitors in the booth is drumming. She looks into the studio and Myka is behind the kit. She blinks a couple of times with small, barely audible puffs of breath.

Myka is – in fact – _still_ behind the kit. Claudia left her there five hours ago to 'just test the mic setup' when she decided to retire to her room (a room Myka gave her in her house) to rest. That's why the doors were open. Claudia left them open because she assumed that Myka would be following her imminently.

Apparently not. Apparently, 'testing the mic set-up' is an all-night job.

Claudia listens to whatever it is Myka is playing, and she doesn't recognise it. She doesn't think it's a song (or a version of a song) that she knows.

When Myka finishes the take, she fiddles with the controls she keeps by the drum kit and mutters something unbecoming which – to the trained musician – aren't curses at all, just exclamations of a job well done. Claudia watches Myka bend over and reach for a bottle of water which she drains. She notices that her t-shirt is soaked through, as if she'd just run a marathon or done some other unthinkable form of calisthenics for an exaggerated amount of time. When she starts to stretch, Claudia reckons this would be a good time to alert Myka to her presence.

She presses the intercom button on the mixing desk and leans in to the mic, "Good morning, little drummer girl," she sounds sleepy and her voice is about a register lower than it usually is.

"Oh, hey Claud," Myka's voice, on the other hand, has no hint of tiredness. She's bright as a morning bell.

"I take it the mic setup is tested?" Claudia asks.

Myka laughs and finishes her stretch sitting down, then gets up to stretch her legs. "A little more than that," she really looks like she just worked out, Claudia thinks, as Myka wraps a towel around her neck jogs over to enter the booth.

"How'd you sleep?" she asks excitedly, making her way to the mixing desk.

"Not enough," she grumbles. "You?"

Myka chuckles through a big, wide, bright grin and straightens her hair as best she can. She didn't sleep a wink and it was the best sleep she hadn’t had in _forever_. She casts a mischievous glance towards Claud, queues a track on the computer and shuffles sliders around.

When she presses play, Claudia's jaw drops lower than anatomically possible, and she falls into the chair behind her. What she hears from the monitors is quite clearly the track Myka just drummed, and it's one of _her_ songs, one of the guides they laid last week, but it has drums and bass and a synth of some percussion and some strings.

And even though it doesn't have guitars on it properly, and the lead vocals are just the guide, so they are as far from perfect as Earth is from Caprica, she never heard a song of hers like this before. She never even _imagined_ her songs like this before.

She doesn't move a muscle for the duration of the track and when it finishes she looks dumbly at Myka, her mouth still wide open.

Myka is still sporting an eager smile. "There's more," she turns around to queue up another track and reshuffles the sliders. "You want to hear more?" she looks over her shoulder, towards a shocked Claudia.

Claudia nods mutely and Myka plays another track, then another, then another. All in all – overnight – Myka arranged and produced 6 of Claudia's songs, two of them she produced _twice_ , in two completely different arrangements.

At the end of the last one Myka sits on one of the chairs, "I got a little carried away," she admits shyly.

"Well," Claudia wets her lips as she processes everything that had just happened, "'a little' is one way to look at it." She's surprised and shocked and amazed because her own recording process means hours and hours of labour that yield two usable takes. She knew that professionals can do it a lot faster, but she didn't think they could do it _that_ fast.

"I know," Myka's smile fades a little as she leans forward, towards Claudia, "I was thinking, probably at about 4 in the morning, that maybe you would want to be part of it, to be making decisions and choices, and I don't want you to think that I robbed you of those," she looks Claudia in the eye.

This hadn't even occurred to Claudia, that she was robbed of something, because it never occurred to her to make her songs sound this way to begin with. But this does feel strange. To have someone else give _such_ different colours and flavours and meaning to her songs.

Then she remembers that's something she really likes about song-writing. If Claudia thought that how people make her lyrics fit their own life was cool, this is even cooler. Far cooler. By a factor of infinite.

"So we can scrap all of it," Myka continues, "we don't have to use anything of what you've just heard," she cuts through air definitively with a sharp hand gesture, but wearing a gentle smile, "I won't take offence."

Claudia nods slowly, because this is a little too much to process at just-about-6-in-the-morning. "Can I decide after coffee and an unhealthy amount of sugar for breakfast?"

"Absolutely," Myka gets up, then gives Claudia a hand to pull her out of her chair.

"How can you be so perky after being up all night?" she asks Myka as they walk back to the house.

Myka shrugs, because her answer is beyond trite. "All that…" she tries to find a word for the creative process of layering and crafting a song. It isn't work and it isn't magic. It's not really an art, as such, but it sort of is? So she opts for "… _stuff_ just fills me with energy."

The look Claudia gives her is proof that the answer is trite. "I get exhausted when I record," Claudia croaks as they enter the kitchen. She makes a beeline for the coffee machine and switches it on.

Myka hums as she thinks and reaches for bowls and spoons. "I get tired if I have to record vocals," she says, "that's such a hard thing to get _just_ right, you know?"

"Couldn't agree more," Claudia moves their selection of cereal from the counter to the small table. "But also when I create the sound for the song, everything takes _such_ a long time," she drops into chair by the table, "I record 16 different takes on 16 different tracks just to compare different setups of mic vs. amp."

Myka chuckles as she sits down and fixes herself some bran flakes and nuts and fruit. "I remember the first recording setup I had and everything took ages with it," she pours milk into the bowl, "it _was_ exhausting."

Claudia fixes herself a bowl of Sugar Puffs and Rice Krispies. "How come? Did you have to re-wax the cylinders between takes?" she dishes through a wicked smile.

Myka swallows her mouthful. "No," she grins in return, "sharpen my chisel,".

Claudia huffs a chuckle.

"Seriously, though, it wasn't far off," Myka continues, "my first setup was a double tape deck that had a dubbing function."

Claudia's eyebrows shoot up. "You overdubbed your takes as tracks?"

Myka nods.

"On proper, old-school, cassette tapes?"

Myka smiles broadly at the ridiculousness and idiocy of this technique.

"What did you do if the overdub was too loud, or too quiet, or out of tune?"

"I'd re-record it."

"So you had to listen to every take in full after laying it."

Myka nods and takes another spoonful in.

"I get exhausted just thinking about it," Claudia slumps in her seat.

"Yeah, well," Myka chews noisily, "it was the 90s and I was a kid and recording equipment was very expensive. Not like today where every snotty nosed brat has Garage Band on their Mac."

"Hey, not all of us have Macs," Claudia feels the need to defend herself.

"And you are neither snotty nosed nor a brat, Claud," Myka appeases her, and they munch silently for a few minutes. "Have you seen my laptop?" Myka asks out of the blue, "I think I have those recordings somewhere, if you want to listen. They turned out alright, in the end."

"I think I saw it on the coffee table in the living room," the response is monotone. Claudia is tired.

"I'll be back in a minute," Myka walks out of the kitchen.

Claudia finishes her bowl of cereal and has half a portion for seconds. She then gets up, clears the dishes and pours herself and Myka some coffee, which she takes to the living room.

She looks around the room and notices Myka passed out on the couch. "Energy my ass," she scoffs and takes both mugs out to the studio, where she can spend some time wrapping her head around Myka's perspectives of her music.

 

* * *

 

 

It's another late Sunday night at the Warehouse and Helena is burning the midnight oil, or the candle at both ends, or possibly both. There is a lot of burning going on, whichever way one chooses to look at it because Helena has been at it since Saturday morning. She's been working pretty much non-stop for the past week, getting her sampler ready in time for the Regents' Gathering, which is Warehouse Records' way of making "board meeting" less board and less bored.

The Regents are due to gather in LA in under 45 hours, so Helena is very much on a clock. She takes a deep breath, because there is absolutely no point in getting stressed about this. She knows it will be ready in time. It's nearly there.

Mastering is a painstaking, fastidious job; and Helena Wells is nothing if not a perfectionist, so every mix she finalises is tested on four different audio devices and two pieces of software she engineered especially for this, to emulate the sound of the mix after it had been compressed and re-sampled (because – who are we kidding – people still rip and burn CDs and shift mp4s to m4ps to mp3s and the other way around).

Her sampler has 17 tracks from 17 different artists, all of whom have been chosen carefully during nights much like tonight.

At 15-hours-to-go Helena is running final tests on the very last track. How fitting it is for Leena to step in to the booth at this precise moment.

"I can't believe you're still here, HG," she says.

"What time is it?" Helena asks distractedly while scanning the results her software spat out.

"It's nearly 8am," Leena scans Helena's features for tell-tale signs of fatigue or stress or discomfort, "on Tuesday."

"That is perfect," Helena looks up towards Leena, and Leena looks relieved because Helena shows signs of none of those things. "You should be the first to listen to this."

"Why?"

"Because you were instrumental in the making of this sampler," Helena smiles brightly at her, gets up and gestures towards the chair she vacated. "Have a seat, have a listen, I'm going to get us some tea."

Leena nods in appreciation, sits down and leans in to the chief engineer's chair.

Helena walks towards the small office Leena occupies and puts the kettle on. She takes her phone out of her pocket, and sends a text:

'Apologies for being unavailable over the past few weeks. Work has been rather full on. I was hoping to invoke the right to ask for an audience with you.'

She stares at the screen for a few seconds, hoping for an instantaneous response which – evidently – will not be instantaneous. She tucks the phone back in her pocket and stares at the kettle instead, while it boils. It is only now that she feels the strain of having been up for the better part of 4 days finishing her project. In order to not succumb to the raging tiredness she busies herself with putting a humble breakfast offering together.

She reaches for two mugs, and rummages in the small cupboard for the herbal tea bags. The feel of her phone buzzing in her pocket startles her and she is ever so slightly delighted at the prospect of the message she is anticipating.

When she looks at it she can't hide the disappointment, because the message is from Nate.

'Hi. Haven't heard from you in a while. Everything ok?'

She leans against the filing cabinet and sighs. Nate hasn't entered her thoughts at all over the past few weeks. She's not sure how to respond to him, so she starts a message, but deletes it, and starts another and deletes that too.

Then the phone buzzes again, while still in her hand, and the smile that faded so quickly is back just as fast.

'I'd love to. Got something in mind? M.'

Bollocks. She hasn't got anything in mind. Maybe they can go out for dinner or something. She'll have to ask Leena, but for now she'll have to wing it.

'Perhaps something low key? Are you free Wednesday?'

Wednesday is the day after the Regents gather, by which point she would have caught up on her sleep. Wednesday night is also a full day and a half away should be enough time for her to find something interesting for them to do. This time there is no wait whatsoever and the answer lands almost immediately.

'Wednesday is perfect. Time and place?'

'Let's make it 7pm, I'll inform you once the location is set.'

Helena cringes a bit at what her text actually reads like, but equally because of what it reads like between the pixelated lines, which is the fact she has no plan for Wednesday night.

'Sure. Looking forward to it.'

The tendrils of exhaustion that Helena felt licking the edge of her awareness a few moments ago have all but disappeared and she finishes making two perfectly brewed, steaming mugs of tea. She reaches for her biscuit tin, one that is clearly marked with her name to ward off wandering eyes and sticky fingers, and pulls out her specially imported stock: Jaffa Cakes and mini Bakewell tarts. She places a few on a small plate and joins Leena.

In the booth, Leena is engrossed by the fourth track of Helena's sampler. Helena creeps quietly behind her, places the tea and cakes on the small coffee table at the back of the room, and sits down on the sofa.

This has become second nature to Helena now, sitting on this sofa by this coffee table with Leena in the control room listening to music. After all, a considerable portion of Helena's life has been spent this way over the past few months at the Warehouse.

She smiles to herself while watching Leena responding to the music that fills the booth and she is filled with appreciation to the young, enigmatic studio manager. She knows the sampler will not have been anywhere near as good as it is if it weren't for her.

Her mind wanders and she contemplates what it may be like to have a studio with her and Leena and Myka in it, and how that chemistry could be startlingly phenomenal.

Leena's quiet confidence and magical ability to influence anyone and fix anything, paired with Myka's musical talent, sharp mind and human connectedness and topped off by her own technical mastery… This is surely a recipe for spectacular things, Helena thinks and her smile widens.

Leena joins Helena on the sofa as soon as the track finishes and they have their tea and small cakes for the remainder of the sampler.

When it ends, they sit quietly for a while, staring across the miniature cityscape of knobs and twinkling LEDs that make the horizon of the mixing desk.

"I knew you were a good bet," Leena hums through a smile.

Helena smiles back at her, "I'm glad to have justified my reputation," she feels an ounce of pride.

"Would you like me to take it to LA with me?" Leena asks as she turns her look to Helena.

"If you wouldn't mind," Helena sighs as the weight of three sleepless nights collapses on her like a sub-prime mortgage. She falls backwards into the sofa, throws her head back and closes her eyes.

It doesn't take Leena’s unique powers of observation to notice Helena's dip. "Will you be okay holding the fort?"

Helena huffs short breaths that grow farther and farther apart. It's been a long time since she'd felt bone tired. She only uses this expression when it is absolutely called for – and there is no doubt it is absolutely called for this minute – for weariness had spread through her like bindweed, sprawled into every crevice within her, reached every pore of every bone.

She knows Leena asked her a question, but she also knows that Leena may criticise her response. So she chooses to frame her request carefully: "How awful will it be if the Warehouse remained closed tomorrow?"

"Take a day off, Helena," Leena chuckles and walks to the mixing desk, to take the pile of CDs from the top of it.

She's already out of the booth when she thinks she hears Helena call her name. She goes back to the control room's door and peeks in.

"Thanks you, Leena," Helena says from behind closed eyes, "for everything."

The studio manager smiles appreciatively, "You're welcome."

"Where would you take someone on a Wednesday?" Helena slurs.

Leena dispenses a knowing smile, knowing full well this is the return of the Voodoo Lounge magic. "I'll leave you a list in my office."

 

* * *

 

 

Myka hears nothing from Helena until very late on Tuesday night. Even then, it's a cryptic message.

'Tomorrow, 7pm, Warehouse Studios.'

That's an odd place to meet, she thinks, there is nothing around that part of town that could be construed as a location for a date. But her former-agent mind bubbles with thoughts and presents her with a theory, a suspicion: Helena Wells works at Warehouse Records.

It sort of adds up – the coffee place where they first met was a couple of blocks away from the Warehouse, Helena mentioned she works with studios now, and there was her reaction to James MacPherson at Voodoo. A reasonable theory, a bit circumstantial, she grants herself. But she isn’t after a court order, so that will do; and it puts her agent mind at ease.

She just needs to remember to ask Helena tomorrow night. That is, if she manages to remain compos mentis enough throughout the evening and not allow herself to fall _into_ Helena the way she usually does.

She smiles to herself as the thought of what _usually_ happens crosses her mind, and she bites her bottom lip to contain the smile, but also to remind herself of what kissing Helena feels like, of what being kissed by Helena feels like, and that stirs something in her belly and suddenly she _can't wait_ to see Helena tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

 

Claudia notices that Myka is distracted. She's been distracted all day today. The only reason she chooses to bring this up is because of the bad timing of it: they are in the final stages of mastering Claudia's EP; and Myka chooses this time, of all times (since they started working together), to leave the studio before Claudia, to leave Claudia – who never mastered anything before in her life and isn't sure she wants her EP to be the first thing she experiments with – to her own devices.

"Was it something I said?" Claudia challenges with a quirked eyebrow when Myka is halfway out the control room's door.

"What?" Myka responds, dreamily, and Claudia wants to tease her so badly, because Myka has this sheepish, loved-up look in her eyes.

"You're leaving the studio and it's not even 4pm," Claudia rolls backwards from the mixing desk, "you never leave the studio before – at least – midnight."

"Oh," the right corner of Myka's mouth pulls upwards and she glazes over, "yeah," she shakes her head slightly, "I have a thing tonight."

Claudia bites the inside of her cheek because she has about a hundred quips going through her mind that she could use to tease Myka with, but this is just too damn sweet and she won’t ruin it for Myka with teasing, so she just smiles. "Okay," she says softly and pulls herself back towards the desk, "go thing," her smile brightens as the door to the control room shuts softly behind Myka, who probably wasn't listening anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 9: if love won’t tear us apart, logistics will (or competition. or life).

It's funny how disappointment stings in the least expected way.

Myka was on her way into town on that Wednesday evening when her phone rang and a very apologetic Helena cancelled their date because of work. Helena was (apparently) called at the last minute to attend the last day of her new employers' annual general meeting following a successful completion of a project.

While apologies flowed readily from her, Myka could sense that Helena was quite self-satisfied that her attendance was at the explicit request of the chairman and the board, and they were pulling out all the stops to have her flown to LA that evening.

But this wasn't what disappointed Myka.

Myka knows Helena well enough to know that Helena is so driven, is so focused and has so many aspirations with strategies to boot, that anything other than what she has planned often gets left by the wayside.

During the six weeks they spent together in DC all those years ago Myka got to experience that enough times.

What disappointed Myka was the fact she had predicted this would happen. She was disappointed to be right. She was disappointed that after all this time Helena changed so little that she could still be so predictably unpredictable.

This discovery startled Myka because it made her realise that she had no expectations of Helena. None whatsoever. She honestly didn't expect Helena to re-prioritise her life or her career or her preferences. She didn't expect her to be any more romantic or any less matter-of-fact. This is who Helena is, and that’s fine.

This wholesome, non-judgemental acceptance was new to Myka, the fact that she had no expectations of a person she is obviously enticed by, someone she is (or was?) angling to be involved with.

But then again, she knows that involvement with Helena is different. Was different. Being involved with Helena in the past – as wonderful and as amazing an experience it was – had an expiration date. Maybe this one has one too.

A part of her thinks that this is her growing up. This is her _really_ learning a lesson from all her previous relationships. And what she's learned from those handful of relationships she'd had (there weren't that many, really…) was that expectations are the bugbear of pretty much everything, especially if they remain unspoken.

Another part of her, however, thinks an equally likely explanation for her being at peace with this disappointment, is the fact she had no time developing expectations: after Helena's apologetic phone call and after turning back and after being silently grateful to Claudia for not asking her any questions, they wrapped up 16 songs. They bundled them into an EP with 5 songs and an LP with 11.

This was followed by two weeks of relentless phone calls and the most begging Myka had ever done in her life, which yielded the sought-after result: Claudia Donovan has a booked rotation in local clubs and a mini-tour that just keeps growing.

They are not going far – no more than 120 miles radius – making it reasonable for them to round-trip it on the same day, as per Myka's calculations. This factors in any PR that needs to happen pre-gig, then set up and sound check and take down and any and all hiccups that inevitably happen when you're on the road.

Claudia, on her part, works tirelessly on her social media presence, creating videos and soundbites that pulse through the web and deliver her to the masses. She also has the hard task of doing the old school media stuff, like College radio and local radio and internet radio and webcast interviews and appearances in music stores and comic book stores and malls and cafes and all that rigmarole that is the PR machine of her music.

So between managing Claudia's PR and tour, it's no surprise that nearly two months go by since Helena bailed on Myka, and Myka has barely spent any time dwelling on it.

Myka does think of Helena (occasionally) when certain songs pop up when she drives Claud around, or on the rare occasion when Myka joins her talent on stage, or on the rarer occasions when she exchanges polite text messages with Helena who – by the sounds of it – is as busy and distracted as Myka.

Following one of those rarer occasions, upon learning that Helena is about to board a plane from Budapest to Tokyo, Myka is sporting a pensive mood, contemplating the fact she feels pleased for Helena rather than feel annoyed with her; so she's relieved when Claudia is too wired to relax in the passenger seat and asks to drive home.

They spend most of the drive in silence, listening to one of Claud's mix tapes – a powerful concussion of blues, grunge, indie folk and trip hop – which is a bit of an education for Myka. She doesn't know half the tracks.

"Can I ask you something?" Claud speaks up after a 74 minutes' worth of driving, just after the mix ends.

"Sure," Myka answers distractedly, looking out the window, absorbed by the vast darkness that surrounds the country road they are on. A darkness that reminds her of Helena's eyes, Helena's hair.

"Why didn't you do anything with your music?"

Myka turns to look at Claudia, who casts a quick glance back, acknowledging the fact she grabbed Myka's attention.

"I mean…" Claudia tries to explain, "I know you've recorded your music," she looks at Myka briefly as she speaks, "and I've seen you write and improvise, but you never talk about gigging or putting anything out…" her thought comes to a slow halt.

Myka nods for a long minute wearing a lopsided grin. "Tori Amos said at some point that you make music because that's your form of expression," she muses idly and falls silent.

Claudia thinks about this, 'form of expression'. That's a good way of putting it. It makes music something more than a language. It's a way of communicating something bigger than _words_ to the world. A way to be communicated back with.

Myka takes a deep breath, and starts again. "There's always the assumption that if you write a song, you should play it," she wets her lips, thinking about the two phases in her life where she took to the stage, once in college and once just before she joined the Service, "but I found out that performing isn't my form of expression. My form of expression is creating music, it’s the craft."

Claudia nods, processing Myka's response. "So you did gig?"

"Yeah," she chuckles and shifts in her seat, "for a few months, in my early twenties and then again a few years later."

Claudia waits for Myka to continue. When she doesn't, she prods. "And?..."

"And what?" Myka looks at her.

"And…" Claudia drawls, "what happened?"

"Nothing," Myka shrugs, "it just didn't do it for me."

Claudia tries to understand why. She's thinking about what would make playing on stage stop working for her: rotten tomatoes are the first thing that comes to mind – if she got the kind of bad feedback suggesting she sucked frequently enough, she'd probably respect the wisdom of the masses and question what she has to contribute to the collective experience. That is one of the most likely things to make her stop enjoying being on stage.

But Myka doesn't suck. She's quite good.

It wouldn't take rotten tomatoes, either, Claudia postulates further. She's had a few nights over the past few weeks when the crowd just wasn't into the gig, and it left her feeling flat. She can see how getting too little from a crowd would make her stop going on stage.

Maybe that happened to Myka.

A long time ago, when she first started, Claudia reminisces as she checks she's not breaking the speed limit, she was terrified of being on stage. She didn't like the jitters it gave her, she was mortified of exposing herself. It took Claudia a while to realise that she actually liked the jitters, that they make her feel alive.

Maybe Myka couldn't make the jitters work for her.

The next thing that comes to Claudia's mind is the element of repetition. She's already beginning to feel the strain of playing the same sets over and over, and it's only been a month and a half.

Every night she plays, the songs are a little bit different, and the people are a little bit different so the energy is a little bit different, sure. But at the end of it, she has a songbook of about 35 songs, and she knows there will only be _so many times_ she could play those 35 songs.

Maybe that got to Myka earlier than it will get to her.

Claudia just thinks it's a shame that nothing came of Myka's music, that it is written for her drawers and that no one gets to hear the stuff she comes up with. Some of it is pretty darn good. "Do you think that maybe one day you'll let me play one of your songs?" Claudia asks eventually.

Myka gives Claudia a serious-come-surprised look from the other side of the car. "Really?" there is a hint of disbelief in Myka's voice, as if she had never expected Claudia to think much of her music.

Claudia nods decisively, because _of course_ she likes Myka’s music. It’s _really_ good, and goes really well with her own songs.

Myka's not entirely sure what to make of the request, but if Claud hears something she likes in her songs, "Okay," she says, "by all means."

Claudia smiles brightly because she already has some ideas about Myka's old songs. She also has ideas about co-writing new ones.

 

Four months since finishing Claudia's record, the two of them have a well-oiled machine: Steve and Pete join them whenever they can as roadies or promoters or apprenticing techs. Having either one of them reduces set up and takedown times by more than half, so they can go farther.

Two months after that (six months since they started), and the tour breaks even: they sell enough tickets and LPs to cover the costs of the tour so far, and Claudia starts designing merchandise.

The scintillating idea of making a profit out of music is just within reach.

And even with that carrot dangling so close it’s practically within reach, the whole thing is exciting and exhausting in equal measures for everyone involved, so Myka schedules a two-week break for Claudia to do something fun, something that will recharge her with different energies, something that will give her a break from answering the same questions every day, from playing the same songs every night.

It also just so happens that this break falls on a time that Pete needs to be back in DC and Steve is out on a mission and Myka needs to go back to Colorado to be with her dad who is about to be moved to another care home after his health took a turn for the worse.

So for the first time since she started working with Myka, Claudia has time all to herself. It feels odd, not having Myka around, she kinda got used to her presence and to her quirks. Her early morning runs, and how particular she is about her coffee. How excited and sociable she could be one hour and how shy and retiring she could be the next.

Claudia used to have a lot of time by herself before she started working with Myka, but it's like she'd forgot what working on her own feels like after having her life filled with making her dream and her passion come to life.

And that thought keeps her up until the wee hours of the morning, so she sleeps in. She mooches around Myka's house and the studio. She plays around on the double bass and the cello and the drums and the piano (these are usually Myka’s instruments, and she almost daren’t touch them when Myka’s around). She plays around with the basses and the guitars and starts sketching three new songs.

She goes into town and watches a movie, does some grocery shopping, grabs a coffee.

She hangs out at the B&B. She hadn't been there in _ages_. Artie looks okay, Trey looks okay. Vanessa seems to be around a lot more. Either that, or Claudia simply didn't realise how much time Vanessa spends there before the evening crowd pours in.

As she listens to Artie and Trey and Vanessa updating her on the comings and goings, she thinks that the B&B hasn't changed all that much over the past six months and she wonders whether or not she's changed as much as she thinks she has.

Trey asks her to come around on Thursday for open mic night, because the regulars missed her so much, because he missed her so much, and it doesn't take much at all for Claudia to admit that she missed them too (and she also kind of misses her club sandwich and fries and Coors light post performance, something no other venue in the 200 mile radius has managed to do as well as Artie does).

An open mic would be fun, Claudia thinks, and very different to her hectic stage schedule, not that she's complaining, because the past six months kicked so much ass, there is virtually no ass left to kick for 200 miles in every direction.

 

On Thursday, just before she goes on stage, Claudia remembers how she stood here, in the wings of this tiny stage almost a year ago, on the night Myka noticed her for the first time, when she sang Naked if I Want To and Lilac Wine, and her smile turns nostalgic as she runs through everything that had happened since.

And it's everything that's happened since that makes her choose her set list for tonight: for old time's sake, she'll start with Naked if I Want To, then play Come to Me, one of her absolute Mark Lanegan favourites and finish off with one of her songs from the LP.

And just as Trey introduces her, much in the same way he always has, she realises that the butterflies and the jitters are still there, and that the excitement is still there and she hopes to all the gods and goddesses that she never _ever_ loses them, no matter how many stages she steps onto, because losing the butterflies and the jitters and the excitement is the thing that will make her stop playing on stage.

She loves Naked if I Want To every bit as she did a year ago (and the year before that, and every year since she first heard Cat Power's rendition) and still sings it like she means it. Only this time, it's less of a lost cry from the bottom of a ravine, and more of a silent declaration of being found at the top of it, after scaling the ravine's cliff face.

When she finishes the song, Claudia feels at peace on this little stage in front of a B&B that's fuller than she'd ever seen it and she thanks the audience – less because it's what she needs to do and more because she's truly grateful for them being there.

When the applause dies down she starts playing Come to Me. She starts with just a bass riff, which she builds up as the song continues. Come to Me is a new addition to Claudia's songbook, and took quite a bit of work, because it's recorded as a duet – Mark Lanegan and PJ Harvey – but she is willing to overlook the glaring lack of Lanegan's gravely, aching vocals to give this, the most honest of songs she had ever heard, her own flavour.

When she sings those lyrics, those words that are like acid that strips away all the crap everyone convinces themselves with and reveal the rawness of missing someone or wanting something so badly that you are prepared to wait _so_ long that waiting becomes a first nature, she feels like she's bearing all in front of this group of half-drunken strangers.

And that feels real to her. _That's_ why she plays on stage.

When she sings those lyrics she reminds herself that she's still waiting. She's waiting for opportunities to arise and for opportunities to be missed; in love, in music, in life.

She finishes the song and lets the last chord ring as she stands on the stage, staring out into the darkness of the crowd, but nowhere in particular, and takes deep breaths that are her own way of celebrating everything she's overcome to be able to stand on _this_ stage in front of _these_ people and sing _this_ song.

And these people are eerily silent, but it doesn't worry Claudia one bit. It would've worried her a year ago, but not today.

Today, this song and this sentiment cleanses her from the existence of pure determination she's lived and breathed for the past six months, the existence of constantly and fiercely pushing forward without stopping to appreciate what she wants, what she lacks, what she's missing.

She thanks the audience again, and there is a single source of exuberant clapping that soon spreads through the room like wildfire.

She finishes her set with one of her own songs, one of her favourites, because it's one of the songs Myka produced and made it sound like something she'd never imagined her songs to sound like ( _ever_ ) but in the best possible way because it's a perfect blend of both their styles.

That's one of the small ways she pays her gratitude to Myka, without whom she will not be standing here right now, feeling this strange confidence in her vulnerability and truth, enjoying it so much.

To a resounding round of applause, probably the loudest she had ever got in the B&B, she takes her telecaster off and walks towards the wings to be greeted by an overly excited Trey who gives her the tightest hug she had ever received. He then places two sure hands on both her shoulders and gives her a look that speaks of pride and excitement and love.

She smiles back at him, at this sweet man who has been so supportive of her in his own, surfer-dude-esque way.

She packs the guitar and makes her way to her usual spot by the bar, glancing towards the back of the house – out of habit – to where Myka usually sits, and she smiles to herself, at how that person, who she actually thought was a mean drunk at some point, has become her producer. And her manager. And a co-creator. And a mentor. And such a close friend.

When she pulls herself up on her usual barstool, Artie dishes her the look of a proud father.

"Oh, don't you get all gushy on me too," she mutters through a blush and damp eyes.

"I wasn't going to get gushy. You know me better than to think I'm capable of being gushy," he buffs a portion of the bar in front of where she sits, "I just can't help but feel an ounce of pride to see how far you've come," he places a napkin in front of her, "and so much of it happened here," he places a bottle of Coors light on it.

"By your standards, grumpy bear," she picks the bottle up and gestures towards him, "that was gushy."

Artie reaches under the bar and holds up his crystal glass of cask aged gin. "Allow me this vice just this once, young one," he clinks his glass with her bottle.

"Young Padwan always at your service, Master Jedi," she smiles and they sip their drinks with looks that acknowledge the longevity of their friendship-come-parent-child-relationship, the hardships it endured.

"You want your usual?" Artie asks after a while, Claudia nods appreciatively and he disappears into the kitchen.

Claudia turns towards the stage and recognises the girl on it now – she was the one who ran off the stage before completing her set that night Claudia was down in the dumps for having lost her job, the night she resolved herself for having a real go at her music.

Like it or not, this girl will always remind Claudia of that pivotal moment. She's doing better but still not quite _there_ , Claudia thinks, but is quick to judge herself for judging others.

"Those were rather bold song choices," a British accent of the female variety startles her.

"Sorry?" she turns around to look at the person who spoke. Her eyes meet dark brown ones and a mysterious expression framed by straight, flowing, black hair. Claudia is sure her eyebrows creep up the longer she looks at the woman because, damn it, she's hot.

"I applaud your choice of songs," the woman says. "I recognised the first two, beautifully performed by the way, true to their humbling spirit," she picks up her drink, "and the third – which I did not recognise – was rather exposing in and of itself," she sips clear liquid from a tumbler, "I take it it’s an original?"

"Uh," Claudia takes a minute to adjust to the accent and the randomness of the conversation, "yeah." Then she thinks for a few seconds about what the woman said, that she recognised two of them. It's not very often that Claudia doesn't need to introduce random revellers to Cat Power and Mark Lanegan, and this lady insinuates that she knows them. "You know Cat Power and Mark Lanegan?" she asks with a smile.

The woman nods from above the rim of her drink, "I can't say I have come across many artists who choose to cover either, let alone both in the same set."

Claudia chuckles, "I can't say I have either."

The woman places her drink on the bar and leans towards Claudia. "Why Come to Me?"

Claudia is taken aback by the straight forwardness of the woman ever so slightly. That's a bit personal to ask on a first conversation and they haven't even been talking for a minute.

The woman seems to pick up on Claudia's discomfort and leans back again, picks up her tumbler again and ponders aloud, "I find that song so honest," she says with a small, sad smile, "so honest in appreciating that we never stop waiting, never stop wanting," she looks back at Claudia, who knows exactly what she means. If ever a sentiment was shared – now would be that time. "I'm Helena, by the way," she smiles and reaches her right hand forward.

"Claudia," she answers with a lopsided smile and shakes Helena's hand.

Both their smiles broaden as the night wears on and drinks are consumed and opinions are exchanged.

 

* * *

 

 

After her jaunt to LA, the one that made her cancel her date with Myka, Helena's life moves into a super-fast lane. Her sampler is a huge success with the Regents, and Helena is pushed centre stage in front of Warehouse Records' staff and shareholders to formulate and present the new Warehouse Records and its approach to talent and production.

She finds herself clocking more sleep in airport lounges and on airplanes than she does in her own bed (or the sofa at the Studio, or hotels for that matter) as Mrs. Frederic and Mr. Kosan, the Chairman of the Board, make her the face of Warehouse Records, and she gets booked to tour all of Warehouse Records' facilities around the world, launching The New Warehouse.

All this takes Helena by the tiniest bit of surprise.

Helena knows she's good. She's confident enough to know _exactly_ how good she is, but she never expected such a large company with such a long and established history to take up on her manifesto so quickly, so wholly, so trustingly.

And frankly, when she approached Irene Frederic just before leaving her R&D job, she didn't think she'd find herself spearheading a transformational gambit to this Mammoth of a music industry icon.

Nevertheless, now that the excitement has died down a bit, Helena is back where it all started for Warehouse Records – at Warehouse Studios – and she's eager to get back to what she had originally signed up for: scouting for talent, producing the talent, making music with the talent.

On Leena's persistent requests she starts attending open mic nights around town on a regular basis. This is her second Thursday at the B&B, when a young, red-haired girl braves the stage. She doesn't have the swagger some of the other acts have, but the minute she starts playing, Helena is spellbound.

This girl, who could not be more than early 20s – is standing on stage and dares to sing Naked if I Want to (the Cat Power rendition) with such vulnerable confidence, Helena can feel her heart breaking in her chest.

And as if that wasn't enough, she launches straight into Come To Me, her favourite PJ Harvey duet and sings it like it was her who thought she was climbing but was really so far down.

By the end of this song Helena has tears in her eyes and she feels like this girl made her able to breathe after years of suffocating.

She's the first to start clapping, and she does with enthusiastic gusto (Helena never claps enthusiastically or with gusto) and the room goes wild for the redhead.

The girl finishes her set with a song Helena doesn't know, but has beautiful lyrics and a bittersweet melody. It reminds her a little of Myka.

When the redhead walks off the stage, Helena makes a mental note to thank Leena for insisting she went to the B&B, because _this_ _redhead_ … She breathes in deeply, in a way she feels she couldn't breathe for a long time, this redhead made it _all_ worthwhile.

She spends the evening by the bar with Claudia, under the watchful eye of the proprietor, who Helena recognises from the photos on the Warehouse's walls as Arthur Neilsen; albeit an older, greyer, slightly messier Arthur Neilsen.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, through the fast flowing conversation about music history and production preferences and digital audio workstation software and mic-to-amp configuration, she wonders why Leena failed to mention the fact that Arthur Neilsen owns the B&B, but has no working theories.

Having determined that there is a sound foundation for a good chemistry between her and Claudia, Helena decides to cut to the chase. "Do you have a demo?" she asks.

Claudia laughs, "I have more than a demo," she drains the last of her beer, "I have an album."

"I'd love to hear it sometime," the engineer nudges forward gently, towards Claudia.

"Sure!" Claudia jumps off the barstool and is about to walk towards the stage, to grab a copy of her LP from her guitar case, when Helena stops her.

"Would you like to bring it with you to my studio? Tomorrow, maybe?"

Claudia eyes her suspiciously. She’s not sure what the offer is for, really.

Helena, who twice now has been more forward than she probably ought to have been with this girl, is quick to explain, "I work at Warehouse Studios," and she notices the bartender's attention piques, "I was wondering if you would like to work together."

 

* * *

 

 

Myka falls on the double bed in her motel room, face down, utterly defeated. It’s as though all the positivity she amassed in her credit during the six months of touring with Claudia is not enough to pay off the debt of expectation she’s been faced with all day today. And the day before. And the day before that.

She knew this would be hard, but she didn't realise just _how_ hard.

Her father was always a tough, pillar of a man with an unwavering, solid presence in her life, that she struggles to see him in his current condition. He's not even a shell of a man. He's the disintegrating fragments of a fallen leaf – dried veins with no flesh between them, nothing to bind him together.

And yet, every ounce of his intensity weighs on her and she can’t put together how this remnant of a human being can project so much unto her, she feels like it’s crushing her.

Things have been hard for him since Jeannie died a few years ago following her short battle with cancer. The past three years were proof that Myka and Tracy were right to suspect that the strong one amongst their parents was their mother.

For Myka and Tracy, these past three years with their father were like ultimate ring fighting, whereby they would each go in the ring for as long as they could before tagging the other to replace them.

Warren was hard work at the best of times, but Warren without Jeannie proved almost impossible.

Myka hates herself for thinking this, for feeling this, because he's her father and he can't help what dementia does to him.

At the same time, she argues with herself that she's allowed to be _a little_ selfish, because he never held back his criticism when it came to her: while not quite a son, she certainly became the focus of his patriarchal expectations to carry forth the family name and business, and heaven forbid she took one step outside the well-plotted trajectory he had for her.

Only since she turned 19, not one of Myka's steps were on that trajectory. And that cost her her relationship with her father.

She rolls over onto her back, legs dangling over the side of the bed, tired eyes stare upwards, unfocused.

She can't quite bring herself to think about today. She's not sure whether today was a boat load of lucidity or the very opposite, because he shared with her a piece of family lore she never knew, something deeply personal about himself, about his life.

And Warren Bering never shared anything deeply personal with either of his daughters.

Thing is, though (and that's what’s messing up Myka right now), he behaved like himself today, like his usual, old, painful self, which suggested to Myka that he was lucid. But what he told her stung too harshly, that she wishes he wasn't.

What Myka wishes for right now is childish, she knows, but she wishes her mom was there to sort out fact from fiction:

Her dad told her that he wrote a book when he was in his late twenties; before the bookstore, before he became a father. He went as far as getting an agent and a publicist because people believed in him. In his talent. And for nearly two years he workshopped his novel in preparation for publication.

But then Jeannie fell pregnant and Myka was born and he needed to provide for them, for his wife and his daughter.

There was a moment he described to Myka in carefully crafted, heart-breaking detail, a moment when he went to soothe her at 4am when she was three months old and Jeannie was asleep, how he nudged the door to her room open and his shadow crept long across the floor. How it fell on the soft carpet, and as he walked towards her crib it felt like it wasn't his, it was a dark menacing presence that's about to touch a crying baby. How that shadow didn't fall into the crib, but crawled under it. How when he picked her up and she looked at him, with her big, green eyes, filled love and adoration only a daughter could feel for her father, even at the age of three months.

He went on to describe to Myka, quite poetically, how his heart clenched in his chest, beating a request to him in Morse code, begging him to consider his choices, his aspirations; because this little person he was holding was _his_ and she needed him to be honest but also to do what's right.

So he let go of the book, eventually, when Myka was almost a year old and Jeannie and him were too close to the breadline.

"When it came to the razor's edge," his words ring clearly in her memory, "it was up to me to be at its sharp end, it was up to me to be cut. To bleed."

So he let go of his dream and replaced it with a string of odd jobs that devastated him until the bookstore came along, but he did it to take care of her. To take care of Tracy. To be a good father. To leave them a legacy.

He told her that letting go of the book was the right thing to do.

It was the right thing to do, and he never regretted it.

And even though he spoke with an honesty she'd never seen in him before, the kind of honesty that sprouts from a true place one must only find at the end of one’s journey; even though he was trying to make amends for the years of doubt and tough love and unrealistic expectations, Myka knows he didn't mean it.

Myka knows regret when she sees it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 10: Claudia gets her big break; Helena gets her big talent; and Myka gets?...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (many apologies for the delay in scheduled programming. Some hardware failed, which resulted in resetting of said hardware, and re-installing operating systems and a whole bunch of IT-helpdesk-related stuff that slurped every fragment of time I had on the weekend. Thank you for your patience... I hope this will make up for it...)

When Myka arrives back at her home after ten days with her family in Colorado, ten days that felt more trying than usual, she feels relieved to be back in a place where she feels free.

She drops her bag by the door and throws her keys into the wooden bowl on top of the sideboard, and as she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror above it, she feels the sharp pang of what she calls The Colorado Dissonance.

In a nutshell, The Colorado Dissonance is this twisted conflict she feels whenever she's back from Colorado, a result of the constant drip of corrosive judgement that makes her doubt whether living out here and doing what she’s doing is the right thing, even though she _absolutely loves_ her house and her studio and her life.

Tracy is the one who tends to offer most of this often unhelpful analysis of Myka's decision making, blaming their mother's death and her affair with Sam and the badly timed changes in her well-paid, government job – all in the space of a year – for the frivolous idea of liquidating all her assets and buying an anti-social pipedream.

Myka knows that she will never hear the end it from Tracy, especially about her decision to sell her DC apartment, because Tracy spent many a summer there, and probably has much fonder memories of it than its rightful owner.

The Colorado Dissonance tends to stay with Myka for a few days, until she washes herself from the expectations of being the eldest, the responsible one who bites her tongue, the one who doesn't talk back and takes it all on the chin, the one who solves everyone's problems.

It takes her a few days to settle back into her own groove of being responsible only for her own problems and not being subjected to snide commentary masked as constructive criticism.

During the few years she had to manage the Colorado Dissonance, she found that what speeds up the process of getting over it is playing the drums.

So whenever Myka is back from Colorado, she drums. A lot.

For Myka, drumming is not only a cathartic act by which she rids herself of anger and frustration through beating the bejesus out of something, but it's also a lot like running: drumming is an orderly construction that's all about the alpha rhythm of brain waves. It sedates the overthinking and silences the voices that sound so much like her dad and her sister.

It's after drumming that Myka feels she can breathe properly again.

Myka's only been drumming for five years or so and she doesn't class herself as an exceptionally good player (unlike her piano playing or her ability to play pretty much any stringed instrument, both of which she's been doing for the better part of 30 years). She was never properly schooled behind a drum kit (unlike piano and strings), which – undoubtedly – is part of the appeal. Drumming is something Myka picked up, and keeps picking up and keeps getting better at and she _absolutely loves_ it.

Today, though, the first hour behind the kit after time spent in Colorado, drumming sucks. That's because her Secret Service agent mind can't stop processing the details of the time she spent with her dad and the over-thinker in her refuses to switch off from how he, even in his condition, still berates her like he's 35 and she's 8, whether or not he's lucid.

She can't get rid of her sister's pleas that always come with the disclaimer that they are only spoken in Myka's interest and happiness, but always seem to be suggestions that bring Myka to Tracy's way of living. And that means – as far as Tracy's concerned – finding a job (a real, normal, nine-to-five job) and easing off on her drinking and moving back to civilisation and finding someone to spend the rest of her life with.

It's because of all this noise the Myka's beat keeps slipping, her response time is sluggish (at best), there is no feel in her fills, and it's getting quite frustrating.

She lets her head fall back as her breathing slows after Iggy Pop’s The Passenger, then she closes her eyes and feels sweat trickle down her neck and back. She places the sticks gently across the snare drum, sighs heavily and gets up. There's no point in forcing it right now, she thinks, it will ease off in time, and the drumming will come as the Dissonance eases.

She walks to the control room where she reaches for the middle drawer in her filing cabinet. She pulls out a bottle of a well-aged highlands single malt and pours the thereabouts equivalent of a double into a tumbler that's there and waiting.

She puts the bottle back in the drawer, pushes it shut forcefully with her hip and walks out of the barn to the driveway. She sits herself down on the front porch steps and thinks about Tracy's way of life, then compares it to hers:

Tracy lives in the suburbs of Colorado Springs in a house that's probably three times the size she and her family (existent and potential) need.

Her daily routine is as regimented as that of a Marine in training, with set times for sleep, rest, chores, duties, meals, snacks and socializing; not only for her, but also for her husband and son. Or so she thinks, anyway, because Kevin is allowed to be late from work if traffic is bad, but Myka knows “traffic was bad” is his code for having stopped for an unapproved beer with his buddies.

They go on family outings every other Saturday, see Warren every other month, and visit Kevin's parents in Denver on the months they don't see Warren.

Tracy and Kevin have their date night every the second Thursday. He brings her flowers every Friday. They have sex twice a week, once always on Sunday.

You can set clocks based on Tracy's life and a barometer reading.

Myka's life seems chaotic when compared with Tracy's, but Myka, who had plenty of regimented living when she was in the Secret Service, gets to enjoy the freedom she never had as a lifestyle: over the past two years she had had more late nights, more lay-ins, more flirtatious conversations, more incidental make outs and more casual sex than she had in her whole life.

(Mind you, she feels the need to check her loose morals against what she considers the benchmark for slutty behaviour, she never had incidental make out sessions or casual sex before she moved out here, so the nine of the former and the four of the latter over the span of two-years-and-change are, she believes, still considered adventurous without being promiscuous).

Myka's house is considerably smaller. It is, admittedly, bigger than Myka needs, but the three-bedroomed farmhouse proved to be just about the right size for sharing with a friend.

She loves the farmhouse. She loves being out here, in a place that's close enough to the city to dip in, but also far enough away so that the backlights don't interfere with seeing the Milky Way every night.

When Pete came up here to help her rebuild the barn around the studio a little over two years ago, he could not shut up about the skies, about the stars, about the sunrises and sunsets. She never realised how big of a romantic he was until then.

And irrespective of the fact that at the time she wasn't in the frame of mind to really appreciate what he was talking about, he was right. The skies that frame the house and the barn are not city skies, and they are special.

She sips her scotch and welcomes the soothing singe it leaves on her lips and tongue. As its numbing toxicity spreads through her, her smile relaxes a little and she thinks of how lucky she is to have a friend like Pete.

His enduring loyalty and persistent support held her together over the past few years, after Sam went back to his wife, after her mom died, after the cutbacks and making herself redundant – he was there every step of the way.

Without him she wouldn't have a studio, not only because he was the one who physically helped her build it, but mostly because he was the one who actually nudged her towards the decision to set it up in the first place.

This makes her think about the fact that she had had a business for just about two years now and it hasn't made a single penny. She knows damn well that this situation isn't really sustainable even though her savings could support her and her business for a little bit longer.

Thinking about the label as a business makes her think about Claudia's definition of a hobby from when they first met: something that creates bills and doesn't pay any of them off; and she can't keep the nervous chuckle escaping her lips, because as much as she'd like her label to be a business, it's not really a business until it makes _something_.

And – yes – they made some money with Claud's tour that covered the tour's costs, and that is an achievement, but…

She force-stops her thinking and takes a deep breath, because that felt a lot like the nagging doubts her sister labours her with.

Instead of giving in to Tracy's talk, Myka focuses on what needs to happen to turn the label from a hobby to a business, what needs to happen so that she could turn a profit from the music she makes with artists in her studio. What needs to happen so that the investment in Claudia will pay off.

Myka takes in a breath and holds it. Something in her is conflicted about Claudia. In order to make her label profitable, she needs to make money out of Claudia, and that just feels wrong. Downright ugly and unfair, because Claud is not just talent. Claud is a friend.

She takes a small sip of the scotch, but leaves the tumbler tilted against her lips, breathing in the alcohol, letting it burn her lips and eyes because that tickling pain takes the edge off of the confusion.

 

* * *

 

 

Claudia checks the clock on her phone constantly in the hope time will pass faster if she does.

She's waiting for six hours to pass from when she knows Myka lands, to give her time to settle back in and have a few hours behind her drum kit. She knows that Myka needs this space and time after she comes back from Colorado to transform back to her usual self.

So while she waits, she goes through the contract Helena gave her again, she goes through the notes Artie gave her. She goes through the contract she has for Myka.

She rehearses what she wants to tell Myka: how she bumped into this person at the B&B on open mic night, and how they got this amazing conversation going, and how this person turned out to be a Senior Producer from Warehouse frakking Records.

She wants to tell Myka how the Senior Producer, Helena – HG – Wells, loves her LP and her covers and her presence and how she sees Claudia's future. What she offered Claudia and her music with the powerhouse that is Warehouse frakking Records and their management and distribution networks and their contacts and... and… and…

How she negotiated an amazing deal for the both of them: that they keep the rights for everything they've recorded together, and how Claudia still has the right to decide where she records her future albums and who she records them with.

And how – probably most importantly – they both make money if they sign.

Claudia is damn proud of herself for having achieved all this in less than a week and she thinks it's the right thing to do. It's not that she doesn't trust Myka to get her there, but this is _Warehouse_ frakking _Records_ , and she will keep saying it like that probably forever, because it just doesn't get old, because it's Warehouse frakking Records.

By the fourth time she'd finished going through all this in her mind, she checks her phone again and it's been six hours and twelve minutes, so she sends Myka a text, asking her to come and meet her at the B&B, because she has some awesome news for them to celebrate.

 

* * *

 

 

"…isn't it awesome?!" Claudia finishes and she feels the muscles in her cheeks begin to cramp from all the smiling.

Myka is silent.

While Claudia can handle silence from her audience, silence from Myka is a different beast altogether. "You don't think it's awesome?" she nudges the curly haired woman in front of her who looks a lot more sulky than excited.

"It is," Myka answers quietly. "It's awesome," her smile broadens, but Claudia can read it for what it is – a forced smile – one designed to veil sadness. Claudia isn’t far off, because Myka is thinking, rather uncharacteristically, that having Claudia taken away from her and being paid for it is some kind of Karmic payback for thinking that she needs to turn a profit from Claudia’s music.

"Nothing is changing," Claudia tries to win Myka over, "not much, anyway."

Myka's expression freezes as she picks up her drink.

"I'm going to move some of my kit over to Warehouse Studios for a couple of weeks just so we can play around a bit, like you and I did, so we can find our groove with The Warehouse, with HG."

Myka picks up on Claudia's incessant use of inclusive, plural pronouns (hinting that it's still the both of them, in it, together), but it doesn't help the feeling of having a knife being twisted in her gut every time Claudia says 'HG', or even worse, 'Helena'.

When she thinks about Helena in all this, she feels a whole other brand of disappointment.

Upon closer consideration, she thinks, this isn't disappointment at all. This is anger. How dare Helena swoop in and take Claudia away from her.

She knows this is anger because there is absolutely no logic in blaming Helena for this. Helena and she never talked about work, she never told Helena about Claudia or her studio or her label, and she distinctly remembers making the very conscious decision to not bring Helena to the B&B in all of the two dates they had, because she wasn't ready to share that place with her.

So instead she's blaming herself for not telling Helena, for not asking Helena, for being so guarded and for failing to survive the seduction game that Helena plays so well and never seems to be burnt by.

"Just a couple of weeks, and then I'll be back so we can record some of the sketches I've been working on," Claudia finishes, her smile brighter than ever.

Myka nods wearily, processing everything that's just happened, everything she just heard, everything she just felt. Processing that her friend and talent just got snapped up by a major label that can propel her career much farther and much faster than Myka ever could, and that Claudia really is far, _far_ too special for Myka to be petty about Warehouse Records picking her up.

And she wants to be happy for her, she really does, but she's also so sad because Claudia's moving out of the farmhouse and into the executive suite above Warehouse Studios for the coming weeks. She really can't blame Claudia for taking that perk up, because Myka wouldn't have turned it down if she were offered it.

But that means that the house will be empty again and the studio will be empty again, and she feels like she's being shoved back to square one and she has nothing to show for the amazingness of the past seven months.

Claudia does a great job with appealing to both Myka's logic and emotions, explaining how it's all going to be better in the long run, and while she understands that Myka is a bit bummed (and Claud makes a point saying she's a bit bummed too), the both of them have so many options opening up in front of them, so this is a _really_ good thing.

Myka understands that. She knows, logically, that this is a good thing, but she can't help but feel sad. And hurt. And angry.

She can't help but feel like something she worked so hard for has been ripped away from her.

At the end of the conversation, she hugs Claudia, who gives her a tight hug back and mutters repeatedly that this isn't over, this isn't goodbye, and that she'll be around tomorrow to pick up her stuff for her experimental Warehouse days and she'll be back before Myka even has a chance to miss her, or her stuff.

She leaves Myka with her contract, the one that details Myka's rights for the music they made together, the one she'll need to sign and return to Warehouse Records within a week.

Myka sits back down at her usual table at the B&B, staring blankly at the neatly stapled pile of Legalese on 28 sheets of 120gsm paper.

She stares at the first page, trying to read it, but she can't get past her label's name on the cover sheet.

She hears Artie's grumbling huff as he sits down next to her, where Claudia sat, and he speaks to her. He says something that kind of sounds like words of comfort, that kind of sound like he reaffirms Claudia's promise that this wasn't goodbye, and that Claudia will be back.

And the lot of it, the whole things with Warehouse Records gnaws at the edges of her consciousness, adding to the pressure the Colorado Dissonance already places on her chest, so everything Artie says sounds jumbled and far away and not real.

She hears the next part very clearly, though.

"The Warehouse is always expanding, Myka," he says, and he should know, he started it. "You are just the kind of person The Warehouse needs, even if you don't know that right now."

She returns a suspicious yet tired look. Joining The Warehouse has never crossed her mind.

"It'll all be fine, Myka," he says, "I know it will," he gives her elbow a fatherly squeeze and gets up and returns to the bar.

And Myka wants to believe him, but she's not sure how to begin.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 11: you can't live in a small town without bumping in to all sorts of people when drowning your sorrows in a bar.

After Claudia leaves with her kit, Myka stays seated by the mixing desk looking into the studio. It looks so sad now, empty and silent with wires dangling from stands, trailing on the floor, connecting DI boxes to no instruments or mics. Claudia's gear – that featured so prominently against the white wall at the back of the studio – is gone; all that is left from it are faded outlines where dust collected around its edges that now mark the negative space where they used to stand.

There is nothing sadder than this picture, she thinks as she releases a slow, deep sigh and sinks into her chair, noticing Claudia's empty chair from the corner of her eye.

"That's not true," she mumbles to the empty control room, to partially disassembled recording equipment and dust bunnies that travelled when they moved Claudia's amps. "Staying here moping about it is sadder." That's the best pep talk she can come up with, so she's thinking about what she can do that is not going to be staying there and moping.

She recalls Tracy's advice about putting all her stock in the studio – ' _selling your apartment and moving in to a house that will also be your place of work is a bad idea_ ' – and she shakes her head with another sigh, because she hates it when Tracy is right, especially about this, and Myka cannot possibly stay home tonight because the studio _is_ her home and that would qualify as 'staying here and moping'.

She gets up decisively and grabs her jacket, gets in her car and drives into town. There's a bar on 17th, between Lexington and Church that'll be perfect: it's loud and proud and everybody's always trying so there's a good chance she'll spend the night at somebody else's.

As she turns the corner to 17th she can hear the music blaring from the bar. It must be dance night, she determines, because there is far too much bass and far too much treble-y hi-hats for it to be any other kind of music. Not ideal, but it will do.

She catches the eyes of a couple of possibles on the way in, and they catch her eye in return. She puts on her best seductive/aloof smile, the kind that narrows her eyes just a little bit so they're smouldering, and that flashes just a tiny bit of teeth.

Yeah, she reassures herself as she settles into the hooking up frame of mind (even though she never considered herself to be particularly good at it), this will do just fine.

She manages to get a seat at the far end of the bar which grants her a decent view of the dance floor. She orders a double scotch, neat, and a large club soda.

A cute blonde that caught her eye just outside the bar, one that smiled back is one person over from her, desperately trying to grab the attention of the bartender, a lanky goth that Myka knows from the open mic at the B&B.

Myka flags the bartender over and points her to the blonde, who smiles at Myka appreciatively, and Myka is already halfway through her thin catalogue of cheesy pickup lines. The one she decides to go with and delivers coolly through her semi-confident smile wins her a smirk and a promise from the blonde to be back in a couple of minutes, after she made sure the friend she came with in okay.

So Myka, who isn’t overly invested in any of this, leans her elbows on the polished mahogany surface of the bar, rolls the tumbler slowly in her right palm and taps the beat of the song that’s playing with the fingers of her left hand against her right biceps.

She lazily watches the blonde smiling back at her from across the room, where she’s talking to the person she assumes is her friend, when she notices none other than Helena freakin' Wells strolling in.

It annoys Myka that she just sees her like this, so casually, tonight of all nights. Of all the things Myka thought could happen tonight, _this_ was nowhere on her radar.

As much as Myka would like to have a good catch-up with Helena (and, really, she would; because she has too many questions she needs Helena to answer), she's quite sure she doesn't have the energy for that tonight. She came here looking for something quick and easy and possibly nameless and positively without baggage.

Helena doesn't fit any of those markers.

She looks at how Helena stands, how she sways gently to hard dance music like it's fucking Johann Strauss, and her mind flashes back to eleven years ago.

She doesn't want to remember how much she enjoyed her time with Helena back then, not tonight, because she's still sad and angry and hurt. But her mind is relentless in dredging up images of Helena in her apartment, behind guitars and bases and woodwind instruments, behind restaurant tables and next to bars and oh-so-close to her; images of Helena in various states of dress and half-dress and undress.

They were so young, and so impressionable. They impressed each other in all the right ways, in all the right places, at all the right times.

There is a lot to be said about leaving this bar with Helena tonight, Myka hears the voice of Jemini Cricket chiding her from her right shoulder, and she is just about ready to flick it off, when it hits her that she doesn't want to make a decision: Helena seems to be wielding so much power lately that Myka decides to see what Helena decides first; and Helena better decide quickly because that blonde just started making her way back towards Myka.

 

* * *

 

 

When she first walks in, all Helena notices is how packed the bar is. Time has certainly done this dive a world of good, she ponders, because the floor is not sticky anymore, there are more than the twelve regulars that used to sit in exactly the same places, there is a DJ on a stage. There is a stage (!) and a sound rig and a lights rig – this isn't the bar she'd frequented way back when, during her ghastly internship and first years in the US.

Then she glances towards the bar and she notices that the range of alcohol on offer has also improved. Vastly improved. It will certainly cater for her needs tonight – a bit of loud music to quiet her busy mind from the whirlwind of a week she had with Claudia Donovan, a bit of alcohol to dull the excitement of the week, then sleep.

Or maybe not.

The clientele has also vastly improved, so maybe there will be less sleep tonight, but no less distraction. (Helena feels she needs the distraction, and seeing as Myka hasn’t answered her call earlier this week, Helena will find her distraction elsewhere).

The next thing she notices is a familiar face at the back of the bar. Not only is this face familiar, it is _familiar_. She knows what Myka is up to when she does that thing with her eyes (how they narrow with an intense gaze) and her lips (how they quirk slightly higher on the right than they do on the left and her top lip is pouting, just a little). This is Myka's game face, and it warms Helena up because of all the beautiful men and women in this bar tonight, Myka is most definitely the most interesting, most alluring, most attractive – on so many levels.

So she smiles brightly in her direction just when Myka notices her.

The game is afoot, Helena thinks, and she strides assuredly through the crowd that stands between her and what she knows will turn out to be a good night out.

Myka is contemplating whether or not to order Helena a drink because that will indicate that – first of all – she remembers Helena's drink of choice in loud bars, and more importantly, that she welcomes a conversation.

But tonight is definitely not a night for having a conversation.

She orders the drink anyway, because it's the polite thing to do, and because she will drink it if Helena doesn’t, and will hopefully drive the evening towards the distraction she craves, or more specifically, a bit of fun and very little meaningful discourse.

Before she knows it, Helena is standing behind her right shoulder.

"Hello there," she says through a beaming smile. Her tone means something to Myka. Something _nice_.

Myka returns a smile. "Fancy meeting you here," she says as she leans back a bit. "Vodka tonic, twist of lime?" she raises a questioning brow.

"Don't mind if I do," Helena nods, and smiles to herself because Myka remembers. She knows the curly-haired ex-agent remembers _everything_ , but coupled with her eyes and her lips, she chooses to think it sweet that Myka remembers her favourite drink. Sweet and also a come-on.

Myka catches the eye of the bartender and nudges her head towards Helena. The tattooed Goth places the drink in front of Helena, then leans towards Myka. "Need another one?" she asks.

Myka smiles and shakes her head and makes a mental note to leave a decent tip.

Helena holds her drink up to Myka who brings her tumbler up for the glasses to kiss with a gentle clink. "Cheers," Helena says and Myka echoes.

Just as she brings her tumbler to her lips, Myka notices that the blonde just made it back, and is standing behind Helena, looking miffed or confused, because the person she crossed the room for appears to have been snapped up in the meantime. Myka blinks slowly, like a cat, and hopes the friendly gesture will be understood as such.

Helena examines Myka's expression carefully. The haughty smile is still there, exposing a white row of teeth, and her eyes are still smouldering, a grey hue tinting them as she takes in Helena and the blonde (of whom Helena is utterly unaware) and the dancers behind them.

Helena is now convinced of Myka's agenda. "I take it you don't want to talk about whatever happed since the last time we met," she confirms her suspicions after letting her drink refresh her.

"No, not really," Myka responds and blinks slowly again, focusing her gaze into Helena's dark irises, trying to gauge the purpose of Helena's question. The playfulness in Helena suggests that either Helena is being a bit cruel by completely ignoring what happened with Claudia, or – she suddenly realises – she doesn't actually know that Myka is involved.

"Let's not, then," Helena takes another sip while sharing a flirtatious look with Myka. "How many drinks will it take to get you to dance?" she asks through a sly smile with sparkling eyes.

"You know I don't do dancing," Myka responds, feeling her smile stretching more easily from over the rim of her tumbler, now that the scent of scotch has loosened the tension in her neck and convinced her to give Helena the benefit of the doubt.

Helena sips more of her drink as she recalls her time with Myka eleven years ago: there were strict guidelines about fraternisation between agents and private contractors, but Helena was never one to follow rules, and Myka, albeit very stiff in her professional manner, turned out to be a completely different person outside work, given half a chance. In the six weeks they spent together they only went out dancing twice, and Helena remembers both nights fondly. "Oh, I do beg to differ, darling," her voice drops in timbre and her brown eyes turn black.

There's that _'darling'_ again, Myka acknowledges the effect Helena's mannerisms have on her, and can't help but smile in earnest, because that 'darling' is Helena's superpower as much as it is Myka's kryptonite and it (along with the voice and the eyes) suggests to Myka that Helena's objective for tonight isn't too different to her own.

She thinks of the blonde for a moment, and that’s partly why she’s bad at hooking up, she admits to herself, because she can’t just be so casual with people. She should – at the very least – apologise, Jimini Cricket starts again, but the thought of spending the night with Helena, professional rivalry aside, is all she needs to silence her conscience.

Myka knows Helena alludes to the two instances when they wound up in clubs, she remembers exactly where and when that happened. Once on the second weekend they spent together, when they felt they needed to do something that involved other people (entirely unnecessary, in Myka's opinion at the time); and once when Pete asked Myka to be the Goose to his Maverick on a double date (which to this day, Myka is convinced was Pete's ploy to see Myka with Helena). On both occasions it took Myka a few drinks to get going, but, going she got and both nights ended in mutual satisfaction. Exceptionally so, if she may say so herself.

"Fine," she relents, because Myka can't say no to those eyes, to that smile and that voice and that _'darling'_ and the promise they all hold. She gets up, downs the rest of her scotch too quickly and gestures towards the dance floor.

Helena takes a last sip of her drink. The back of her mind questions who is the Myka she's experiencing right now: the Myka she'd met some years ago was somewhat more reserved – she needed considerably more liquid courage before she would hazard a journey into public display of love of music, or music snobbery, in Myka's case. This Myka is less restrained, less reluctant and less inebriated than she expected, which makes Helena question how many of those whiskeys Myka had already had.

She measures Myka's not-quite-drunken state (and settles for this being Myka's first drink of the night judging by her balance and crispness of movement) against the eyes and lips she noticed when she first came into the bar. She contemplates whether either would change the plans she has for them, but she decides to throw caution to the wind, because she'd come here with the intent of letting go of the busy week she had had, and assuming past experiences reflect on those soon to occur, spending a night with Myka Bering is the perfect remedy. So she takes the hand in front of her and leads the way to the dance floor.

They find a spot on the outskirts of the dancing masses. Myka feels the scotch hitting every part of her and she relaxes enough to shift her weight from side to side with the rhythm.

Helena looks up at her and thinks that Myka might need a bit more metaphorical lubrication (actual lubrication is part of her plan for later) after all, because, goodness, one wouldn't know she's the talented musician that she is because she moves so stiffly she's almost out of synch with the music.

She looks closely at Myka, to check for signs of discomfort, of a change of heart, but Myka’seyes are closed, and her smile, that little crooked smile from earlier is wider, and she has her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

Maybe, Helena thinks, it doesn't take much for this Myka to get into the literal swing of things. Maybe that one scotch is all it took. She wagers a bet with herself that Myka, similarly to herself, wants to _really_ forget whatever week she may have had and takes the alcohol blush that colours Myka's cheeks for as good a sign as any to make a bold move.

Helena turns around and presses her back to Myka's front and Myka has no choice but to move to the music more liberally, because Helena tethered her to her body, to her movement.

Myka breathes in deeply, feeling the scotch pressing her skin from the inside, and Helena pressing her skin from the out, and she lets the thick, rich beat bounce her diaphragm, and the slight shrill of the synth rip through her like wind.

She doesn't like this kind of music usually, but then the singer (whom she thinks is Rhianna; this was a really popular song when it first hit the charts, but Myka was still at the Service then and wasn't paying much attention to Billboard Top 40) starts singing the lyrics, they – bizarrely – feel so true and topical because it feels like she's about to find love in a hopeless place, with Helena smoothed against her like that. Then Helena reaches for Myka's right hand and places it on the juncture of her waist and hip, and holds it there; and that feeling gets even stronger.

Myka's Secret Service trained mind continues to collect an infinite number of details every single second, and out of nowhere her brain churns out a conclusion that they are moving much too slowly, even though they are still moving to the rhythm. But she has no time to do anything with that conclusion, because Helena leans her head back, against Myka's shoulder, and tilts it upwards towards her, and she's looking at Helena now, into her haunting eyes and there is something in those dark brown eyes. An ache. A longing.

Helena fills Myka's head with thoughts, with wishes of what she would like to do to Helena, and what she would like Helena to do to her. And then Helena fills the pit of her stomach with desire and her heart with want.

Helena angles her head slightly, and Myka leans in to kiss her, on muscle memory or instinct more than rational thought, and the song changes. Without missing a beat of their movement, still in tune with the pulsing beat, Helena walks them to where Myka thinks the bathrooms are, but they walk past them. Helena is less than a step ahead, and she keeps Myka's hand at her side and Helena feels so determined as she pulls them forward, even though Myka can't see her eyes to be sure.

They push through doors that are clearly marked "Staff Only" into a store room and Helena turns around, keeping Myka's hand where it was, only now that Helena's facing her, Myka's hand is straddling the border between the small of her back and the slope of her backside.

Helena fills Myka's personal space with her body, and before Myka can fully appreciate this contact, Helena fills her mouth with her tongue. They fumble in the kiss for a bit – it's been a while since they kissed like this, and no matter what anyone says, Myka thinks, kissing's not like riding a bicycle; especially if both you and the bicycle changed so much since you've ridden them (and the pun, she thinks, is not intended).

She stops thinking when Helena firms her grip on her hand, the one that's too close to Helena's backside, and grabs hold of her other hand, the one that was grazing Helena's waist dangerously close to her breast, and pushes both Myka's hands behind her own back. That means that Helena's frame pushes fully against Myka's, and Helena pushes both of them backwards, until Myka's back hits a stack of boxes and the momentum pushes them so deliciously into each other.

The clatter of glass bottles behind them muffles the groan that escapes them both, and now Helena fills the space between Myka's thighs with one of her own. There is an insistence in her gentle thrusting and she goes back to kissing Myka with urgency and fervour, and Myka is just a little bit shocked at how quickly she gives in and answers Helena's thrusts with her own, and more than a little bit shocked at how quickly she shudders against her.

But that's not the end of that. Myka knows it's not. She drags her hand lazily up Helena's side, then chest, then shoulder to the nape of her neck where her fingers can dive into the abyss of soft, black hair. Her breathing is uneven and she's feeling unsteady after everything Helena filled her with, and she's eager to repay the favour.

She pulls Helena towards her (and Helena is all too willing to comply), the pads of her fingers caress the back of Helena's neck as they kiss. Myka alters the speed and ferocity and pressure of lips and tongue the way she would the speed and ferocity and pressure of a bow against strings.

Oh, and Helena responds so amazingly, she thinks and smiles into the kiss, like a Stradivarius or a del Gesu; and she pushes her fingers up to cradle the back of Helena's head and touches the tendons there like she would the strings of that masterfully crafted violin, and then she fists her hand in those thick, black locks and tugs gently.

Helena's whimper is all Myka needs to reverse their positions, push Helena against the stacked crates she was leaning against a moment earlier, push her other hand under Helena's shirt and up her body while beginning a new rhythm between them.

At this point, Myka isn't at all shocked that it doesn't take long for Helena to tremble against her with a quiver that'll always be pleasantly familiar.

"Darling," Helena gasps quietly, placing purposeful hands on Myka's shoulders, holding on to her as though it is her who keeps her from slipping down a cliff face, as the taller woman sets a lazy trail of kisses along her flushed neck.

Myka hums in heated delight, or devilish intention. Helena isn't sure, but loves it, either way.

"Would you like to take me to yours?" Helena husks, slightly out of breath.

And Myka stops kissing, stops being filled with the nice things that Helena does to her, because her place, Myka's place, is a reminder of failure, of bad bets, of the I-told-you-so's she will be getting from everyone and their dog soon enough.

It is a reminder of Helena signing Claudia from under her.

"Or not," Helena retracts her suggestion the second Myka stops, because she doesn't want Myka to stop; she doesn't want her lips to stop, or her tongue or teeth or nails or fingertips or fingers or hands or chest or abdomen or hips or thighs or anything of hers to stop. She places a soft, encouraging palm on Myka's cheek and coaxes her back into an adoring kiss. "Would you like to come to mine?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 12: misplaced anger, well placed love.

Helena opens her eyes and breathes in the warm air of her sparsely decorated bedroom. The dull ache in her muscles and the size of the smile that's plastered across her face conveys the extent of how content she feels, how satiated. Bumping into Myka at the bar last night was quite possibly the best outcome for the evening; least predictable and most gratifying.

She stretches and her leg wanders over to the other side of the bed. It feels empty. Empty and colder than she thought it would be if Myka had only recently got up.

She lifts herself onto her elbows and has a quick look around the bedroom. Myka isn't in bed, isn't in the bedroom and by the looks of it, isn't in the bathroom either. From her vantage point Helena can't see the floor, which is where most of their clothes wound up, so she can't tell if Myka's clothes are gone. She scans the bedroom again, slowly this time, and notices that her clothes are neatly arranged on the armchair in the far corner of the room.

Her eyes narrow slightly and the contented smile she sported turns amused. Some things don't change, she thinks, and supplements that thought with how sweet it is that Myka tidied. Over the six weeks they'd spent together, it was very clear that Myka cannot abide by messy scenes. She was great at creating them in heated moments, much like last night, but was also very efficient in putting everything in its right place afterwards.

She reaches under her pillow, where she keeps her pajamas, and whisks out an old, oversized t-shirt that falls on her small frame like a burlap sack.

"Myka?" she calls as she gets out of the bed, glancing at its state and giving it a somewhat self-satisfied grin. She is pleased with herself, as she is with Myka, for the previous night and this morning. It almost felt like the eleven years between the last time they shared a bed and now were not as long as they sound.

Helena was pleasantly surprised to be taken back to her physical preferences of a decade ago. Myka, with her bottomless pit of a memory, remembered exactly how Helena liked to be touched, what and where made her gasp or moan or whimper.

For Helena, the first few hours they spent in this room were like listening to Heather Nova's Oyster: while not a musical masterpiece, it is a songwriting triumph, a pivotal contribution to the soundtrack of 1994. It accompanied every single one of her experiences, emotions and epiphanies for the better part of the 12 months that followed its release, but she cannot recall a single time she'd played it in the past decade. She'll be hard pressed to recall more than a handful of times she'd played in it the past two.

But last night, when Myka had started out playing safe with her knowledge of Helena's body, it was like when she stumbled upon Oyster a few months ago and played it from beginning to end, for old times' sake, and it felt like she'd time travelled back to 1994: all those experiences and emotions and epiphanies rang as loudly and clearly in her mind as they did 20-odd years ago.

"Myka," she calls a second time and runs her fingers through her hair, thinking about how the evening progressed. How they grew bolder with each other, travelled outside the comfort of tried and tested knowledge. She gives the duvet a shake, which reveals a leather belt hanging off the far corner of the bed. Helena's smile turns into a smirk, passion ignites within her once more and hints of arousal make her skin tingle.

"Darling," her tone lowers as she saunters out of the bedroom, past the bathroom and on – to the cavernous living space that's a kitchen, dining room and living room rolled into one, "where are you?" her question finishes as a whisper as she realises she is alone.

"Some things really do not change," she huffs a disappointed sigh and puts the kettle on. Over their previous engagement, Myka's sense of duty always overrode any other commitment she may have had, and irrespective of how romantic and passionate a night they will have shared, Myka would vanish come morning if she had to be at work (and she had to be at work every morning, bar weekends), with very little left in her wake to suggest she was ever there.

As she pours herself a cup of tea she contemplates her options and their potential consequences: go after Myka, or not. The former feels more true to her than the latter, given the time they had shared recently. Helena feels she owes it to herself as much as she does Myka to have an open conversation about their long-term intentions for one another. Last night, as a brief culmination of the two dates they’ve had, was far too fulfilling to not have happen again. Not going after Myka is therefore, not an option at present.

That said, she closes her eyes and inhales the soothing mix of Earl Grey with milk, if this is the same Myka of eleven years ago, Helena's hunt for her is most certainly part of the game and Myka will appreciate a head start.

A mischievous grin stretches across Helena's lips. It widens and reaches her eyes as she starts considering the multitude of ways she could chase Myka.

For the time being though, while she allows her green eyed-object of affection her head start, she has new talent to take care of. Claudia, as far as she knows, has landed in the executive suite above the studio with her equipment last night, ready to begin working next week.

Most of the paperwork is in order, bar that from the parties that brought Claudia to where she is now. Part of Helena’s job is to ensure that these parties are appropriately managed, which will make for a smooth transition and a happy working relationship well into the future, as she suspects Claudia will not let go of Success Records (such an odd name for a label, she thinks) so easily.

She decides it is high time she introduced herself to Success Records and see if they have any reservations or issues about Claudia's move. She looks around the kitchen for her phone, and failing that her jacket, which is where she tends to keep it.

She walks towards the front door, where her jacket should be piled on the floor (where Myka pushed it off of her unceremoniously) – but Myka tidied, so it is not where she had seen it last. She stands by the door, hands on hips, scanning the backs of the chairs – the most logical place to drape a jacket, and sure enough, it is placed neatly on top of one of the breakfast bar's stools. She lifts it and rummages through her pockets to find her phone.

She texts a quick message to her newly acquired talent.

'Good morning, Claudia. Would you mind if I paid your old studio a visit today?'

It takes Claudia no time to respond.

'Not at all. Myka, the manager, should be there by now.'

Helena's halfway through typing 'Would you mind sending me the address?' when her thumbs freeze mid-air and she reads Claudia's response again. And then a third and a fourth and a fifth time, as if rereading it will change its contents.

A distant, mathematical part of her brain calculates the likelihood of there being another musical Myka nearby and the results are not comforting.

Helena's heart thumps heavily in her chest because so much falls into place: Myka's vague answers about her current occupation, her remote responses while Helena was globetrotting, and – heaven help her, she leans against the breakfast bar for support – why Myka felt so differently last night, so differently to any other time they'd spent together since they met at that coffee shop a few months ago. Since they'd met again Myka was bubbling with playfulness and freedom and confidence. Last night Myka was riddled with angst and anger and guilt.

As she scales the mountains of information she and Myka skirted around since their reunion, she wonders how she could have let this happen. How she could have let this slip by her unnoticed, the fact that Myka Bering was Claudia Donovan's rep and manager.

Helena holds her phone to her chest because her heart is still thumping, threatening to bounce to the back of her throat, because in light of all this, chasing Myka is a far more complicated game than it had been mere minutes ago. Chasing Myka is no longer a game of seduction and temptation. Chasing Myka has become a matter of business and necessity.

Much to Helena's dismay, Business has stomped into the realms of Pleasure, and she's not sure how much of the delicate nature of fascination and lure will have been trampled by the heavy boots of legal decorum.

All this means that the consequences of resolving her involvement with Myka are farther reaching and the stakes are considerably higher.

Helena finishes her request for Success Records' address and Claudia pings over the location.

"Just when you need people to take their time locating addresses, they are ever so helpful," she mutters as she types:

'Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow to schedule our session next week.'

'Awesome! Can't wait! :)'

She places the phone on the counter and pours herself another cup of tea. While it brews she steels her resolve and goes to freshen up. She makes the deliberate choice to not shower because she hopes the look and scent and feel of last night on her will stand her in good stead in case Myka is still anxious or angry or guilt-ridden.

Helena needs every trick in her book on this occasion. It is about business as much as it is about pleasure, and Helena would like to make Myka more amenable because she imagines Myka _could_ be in a rather foul mood about– well – about everything..

She quickly flicks through emails and other messages while downing her tea, making sure there is nowhere else she needs to be today, then grabs her jacket and heads out to the address Claudia sent her.

The in-car navigation takes her out of town and into the suburbs. That's not surprising, Helena thinks. Myka was never one for crowded living conditions or an over-abundance of human presence; that's partly why they got on so well.

When she drives out of town and into the hills she is slightly concerned that the address she received was incorrect, or that she has input it incorrectly into the satnav or that the satnav itself has gone haywire, because the surroundings are becoming less and less civilised.

When the firm, computerised female voice commands her to veer off the narrow, paved road onto a dirt track her concern turns to alarm.

A few yards in, she is slightly relieved when she notices a mailbox labelled "M. O. Bering", but she can't see where said M. O. Bering would actually be residing. As she rounds a hill, an old farmhouse comes into view. It's a small wooden structure, probably 150 years old, painted white; behind it is a large red barn that appears to be in much better shape.

She didn't know Myka lived on a farm. She never knew Myka would want to live on a farm.

Given what she's come to learn of Myka in the past two hours, Helena's mind begins to whirr with what she knows about Myka: Secret Service, vastly intelligent, quite brilliant actually, a little bit rigid in her manners, very well practiced professional control. She always thought Myka was far too bright to survive a life-long career in the confines of law enforcement. Turns out she was right.

She then flicks through what she knows about her life outside work: talented musician, classically trained, plays piano, strings and a whole manner of guitars, mandolins and ukuleles; bi, lives modestly with the exception of a fascination with single malt whiskeys as a rather expensive vice; two parents living in the mid-west somewhere, and a sister with a boyfriend not far from them.

Helena can't recall Myka ever mentioning having the aspiration of living on a secluded farm and running a recording studio and record label.

To Myka's credit though, Helena doesn't recall them ever having a "hopes and dreams" conversation during their six-week, whirlwind romance. If she can even call it that.

When she gets out of her car Helena hears a faint drum beat and the thrum of a bass riff from the barn – a smart place to put a studio. Helena cautiously walks to the door to find it ajar. She walks into a foyer in small, hesitant steps and slowly creeps forward, through another open door into a control room.

She looks through the sound proof glass, into the sun-lit studio and her jaw drops. The vastness of the room with its high, vaulted ceilings teases her senses – what playing music in that space would sound like, look like, feel like. The room is flooded in bright sunlight that pours in through what appears to be a see-through roof. It bounces inside the room, making the space radiate a warm glow, enhanced by the light wooden floor and layered rugs where equipment – quite evidently – _used_ to stand.

Her mind drifts to Claudia's equipment, which she reckons used to fill that space.

She is overwhelmed by the sense of awe from the studio and its now-missing occupant that it takes her a second to acknowledge that there is music playing from the monitors in control room. The music is Kelly Clarkson's Heartbeat Song.

Helena scrunches her face at the choice, but raises both eyebrows in amazement when she clocks Myka in a far corner of the studio, behind a drum kit, giving it a pretty good bash by the looks of it. All that comes out of the monitors is the song, without a hint of the noise Myka's expert pummelling should be generating.

She watches Myka as she works the beat, perspiring lightly, breathing rhythmically, flushed chest, eyes shut, slightly slack-jawed, lips moving subtly. A small smile creeps up Helena’s lips because Myka looks a lot like she did last night, in her bed.

Myka and drums was not a combination Helena had ever considered, but goodness gracious, what a delicious combination it is, like dry gin and elderflower presse. She takes a minute to savour the image.

Some things _do_ change, she thinks and her smile broadens.

Myka looks so natural in this act, so fully immersed, so connected. Helena's lascivious smile turns admiring the longer she observes Myka; how she pours every ounce of herself into a beat of a pop song. She knows how deeply Myka feels music as she plays it, how music hits her with so much meaning. She isn't just playing along.

Helena knew this about Myka since the first night they spent together, re-recording Houses of the Holy: music is the best way for Myka to feel emotion, to express passion. What Helena learnt in the six weeks that followed was that sex is but a close second, and no other form of expression comes close to either.

Helena sighs deeply to brush off the lustful adoration that's swept of her, and turns to study the studio: the left half of it, where the drum kit is, from the studio doorway to where a small stack of 25W amps are standing, is sparkling clean. The other half looks like what Helena's studio looks like after a band finished a project and left: unwound cables, plectrums, broken strings and pieces of paper strewn everywhere – the residues of creative muses.

In the middle of the studio is a pile comprising of yet more cables, DI boxes, connectors and mic stands. Around it, Helena notices light grooves in the rugs where stands stood for too long and deep dents where bigger amps lazily bore their footprints into the soft surface. These were most definitely left by Claudia's equipment, she determines, because Helena prides herself on being able to tell which amps were racked where simply by looking at the dust outline and imprints left behind.

Kelly Clarkson finishes and Walk The Moon's Shut Up And Dance starts almost immediately after. This song always made Helena smile. She looks back to Myka, who doesn't miss a literal beat and plays along flawlessly – from what Helena can see. By the looks of it, Myka adds her own flourishes, which both impresses Helena and piques her curiosity as those flourishes show for a far better technique than Myka displayed so far.

Myka doesn't _just_ drum. She drums _well_.

She sits down at the mixing desk to watch and cop a listen, too. She fiddles with the controls and brings up the level of the studio’s ambient mics. She can now hear more of what Myka is doing. What she didn't realise until this very minute is that Myka hasn't been muttering lyrics, but harmonising. While playing the drums.

Now, that is _really_ impressive.

Almost as though she is aware someone is admiring her from afar, Myka slips on bass triplet and groans loudly, swears in frustration, but doesn't actually falter and keeps going.

Helena's smile warms and she blushes, because she knows that all she had seen and learned of Myka in the past 12 hours tugged something in her that has not been tugged for a while. That is it, Helena Wells, she admits to herself, you've gone and got yourself in love, and her smile widens until she remembers what she's come for in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

Myka loves this song. She really does. It completely trashes her reputation as a musical savant, but she doesn't care. There's a bridge two-thirds of the way through the song, where Walk The Moon sound too much like U2 for her liking, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s just so much fun for her, to sing along to the chorus with nothing but the kick drum and it makes her smile to a point she is almost laughing. It doesn't matter what she was thinking before or what she'll be thinking after or what she was feeling or what she'll be feeling after, because this song just fills her up with something that comes close to pure joy for three minutes and eighteen seconds.

As she sings the lyrics, they feel (much like Rihanna last night at the bar) very topical and true. Every time she sings "this woman is my destiny" images of Helena from last night flash behind her closed eyelids despite her anger and hurt. By the time she sings that line for the third time, she has to stop singing because a deep craving ripples through her and she has to bite on her lower lip to focus, so she doesn't miss the mock-dramatic ending.

There is a split second after the song ends that Myka feels like someone is watching her. She tears her eyes open, clicks the playback off and casts a quick glace across the studio first, then into the control room – the very dark control room.

"Shit," she whispers as she tries to recall whether or not she bolted the barn's door.

"That was some solid drumming, Bering," Helena's voice hums in her headphones. It hits her straight in her diaphragm and her breath catches.

"HG," she clutches her chest in relief that quickly turns to something else, something that's more urgent but less pleasant. "What're you doing here?"

"Well, at the risk of coming across somewhat familiar, I was in the neighbourhood," Helena takes a quick breath, "and the door was open."

"'In the neighbourhood'?" Myka chuckles as she gets up from behind the kit, "'The door was open?'" she reaches to remove the headphones but stops. She squints into the control room, tries to make out where Helena is. "I'm coming out," she takes the headphones off and places them on a hook above the control box they are plugged into.

She is careful not to say anything, whisper, sigh or even breathe as she walks out of the studio, because Helena can hear her, and she can't hear Helena. That's an unfair advantage and Myka's already feeling back-footed.

She pushes through the heavy doors to the control room and switches the lights on. Helena is sitting in her chair, and that's very fitting for the situation; Myka can't resist the sarcasm, or irony. It could be both. She drags the stool she keeps behind the rack of synths with her until she reaches the opposite end of the mixing desk to where Helena sits, and places herself there. "I'm not buying it," she says after she sits down.

"The door _was_ open," Helena points towards the entrance.

Myka eyes her incredulously. "Sure," she berates herself for not adhering to her own security protocols, "but you don't even know where this neighbourhood _is_ , so there’s no way you just stumbled upon this place."

Helena laughs. "Quite right, I asked Claudia to point me in the direction of Success Records."

"Claudia," Myka sighs and looks away from Helena, into the studio.

Helena purses her lips. For the first time since she was a child she believes she spoke without thinking. Bringing up the red headed bone of contention so early in the conversation was quite possibly amongst the worst strategies to regain Myka's trust, to fall back into her good graces.

Oh, those graces of hers... Helena's mind wanders as she leers at Myka, Myka who is looking stern, almost regal in her detachment, only her quickened pulse and flushed chest giving her away – those should have subsided by now, if drumming were their cause.

In Helena's assessment, Myka's mind could be in one of two places: it is either flaring with anger about Claudia or wandering back to last night or this morning. Whichever it may be, Helena reminds herself to look away with a light cough. Locking her gaze on Myka's chest will not resolve either and she gets up.

She slaps her palm gently on the right pocket of her jacket and wrestles out a rolled up leather belt, the one she found on her bed this morning. She holds it up towards the other woman, whose attention is quite obviously elsewhere.

Helena sighs and places the belt on the mixing desk after a minute, as she realises she had unwittingly ruined something for Myka, something she held dearly.

"I'm sorry, Myka," she says, with true, honest solemnity. "I hadn't realised…" she begins but trails off, because she's not entirely sure she had fully realised what Claudia meant to Myka and her label.

Myka turns to look at her, those green eyes of hers piercing Helena's brown from above red cheeks. "I suppose you didn't," she answers through a forced smile.

"Let me help," Helena offers, because she does. She wants to help so badly. Had she known Myka set up a studio and a label she would have helped. She would have done everything she could to help this woman who came into this wretched business with such passion and idealism and integrity to have it all whisked away from her so close to the finish line.

Helena knows she won't be able to undo the mess she'd made here, but off the top of her head, she can think of at least 20 different things she could do to help Myka recover from this setback.

Myka tilts her head and narrows her eyes, scanning Helena's face for her true motives. She's not sure what she sees. "I kind of think you've helped enough," she gets up to face the dark haired woman.

Helena's lips curl upwards slightly and she takes Myka's hand in hers. "I can help tidy?" brown eyes seek forgiveness in green.

Myka scoffs a laugh. "You?" she raises her eyebrows. "Tidy?"

"What are you implying there, Bering?" Helena hopes that playful banter will lighten the mood.

"Oh, I'm not implying anything, _Wells_ ," Myka emphasises Helena's name and walks towards the studio door. "I'm saying it outright. You're one of the messiest people I've ever known," she pulls the heavy door towards her and disappears behind it – in the well-lit, church-like space behind the glass.

Helena gives chase. "One might argue that I could do with paying closer attention to the state of my own living quarters," she takes off her jacket and throws it on the floor, next to the pile of jumbled cables. She picks up the end of one and begins to pull at it, fastidiously releasing it from the tangled pile it's weaved into, while skillfully rolling it up. "But one might not be aware that in order to have gained credibility over the years, I had adopted surgical precision when it comes to the upkeep of the kit entrusted with me." She holds up a perfectly wound cable, self-tied to prevent it from unravelling into a spaghetti mess.

Myka, who was sorting and stacking DI boxes, turns around just in time to examine Helena's handiwork. She inspects it from where she stands a few feet away, shrugs and smiles. "Fine. Roll 'em up."

They work in relative silence. Helena folds cables and Myka folds stands and one of them starts humming Shut Up And Dance and without noticing they hum harmonies.

Myka starts putting things away in the cabinets and Helena smirks – first at how well kept everything is and how neatly every shelf and hook is labelled; but then because she catches Myka mumbling "this woman is my destiny" again, and Myka notices Helena's noticing, and she stops and blushes and looks down.

"Don't flatter yourself, HG," she grumbles, trying to find a way out of the emotionally and sexually charged sandpit she found herself carelessly tossed in.

"I daren't be so presumptuous," Helena whispers from under her wide smile, and she's blushing as well, because she might as well be singing that line herself. "I'd rather like it if you were, though," she muses quietly and starts picking at another cable.

Within a second, Myka walks right up to her in long, sure steps, with a fierce blush and a confrontational expression. She stops a foot short from Helena, and within a second Helena feels as though Myka is towering over her, menacing.

"Why did you do it?" Myka asks without preamble, hesitation or doubt, simply blurts it out; looking down into Helena's eyes.

"I was looking for talent," Helena holds on to the cable she's doing up with both hands, because she needs the strength to not weasel out of this conversation with her wit or charm or looks or her affection for Myka.

"That talent didn't need looking for. It was already found and well looked after," she flushes again, but this time it isn't embarrassment. It's anger.

"I thought I could help her," Helena says. "I thought I could offer her the path she wanted. I didn't know—"

"I was with her on that path," Myka cuts in, pokes her own chest harshly with her thumb. "I got her on that path to begin with."

Helena looks down and takes a deep breath, squeezing the cable into submission. Even though she knows Myka's anger is misdirected, she feels ashamed of her actions: ashamed she nicked talent from another label, a label that brought the talent up; she's ashamed that she hurt Myka so. Especially seeing as all she wants right now is to do the very opposite. "I'm sorry," is all she says.

Myka bites her lips shut and huffs through her nose in an attempt to calm herself. It doesn't do much. Her emotions rage within her as she looks down at Helena who looks down at the rug. All the good drumming did for her a few minutes ago vanished, and she's a mess again.

She's facing this brilliant, beautiful, sensual woman who's been occupying her fantasies for the past decade (on and off), and she knows she is wanted just as much as she wants, and good fucking god, Helena and her are such a good fit; but this person in front of her is also beguiling and competitive and vicious. This person stole from her, took away from her a friend and a confidant and an apprentice and an investment.

And it isn't just the money, Myka convinces herself (even though she knows her bank manager and accountant would beg to differ). There was so much energy and love and passion poured into Claudia's songs. So much. So. Much. …and for what?...

At a loss of what to say or do, Myka walks over to the pile of small amps, pulls one down and sits on it with a deep sigh.

Helena finishes rolling the cable she's been clutching and turns to place it in its cabinet. She stands in front of the rows of hooks, thoughts zoom through her mind and she struggles to make sense of them: everything she feels for Myka, from love to lust to loyalty to hurt; everything she feels for herself, from shame to loathing to anger to righteousness; everything she feels for them (Myka and her, as the couple they've never been and quite possibly never will be), from longing to desire to hope to inexplicable, instant trust. All the while, she appraises every eventuality and probability of untangling this mess they're in;

and in amongst all those, she tries to fathom Myka's labelling system so that she could select a hook upon which to rest the wretched cable she has in her hand.

She picks one, almost certainly at random, through the fog of her overloaded consciousness.

"One up and two to the right," Myka corrects her and Helena moves the cable with slumped shoulders.

Helena shakes her head lightly and walks towards Myka and the pile of amps. She is angry too (she doesn't deserve Myka's anger), and sorry (because – at the same time – she does), and in love, damn it, and she never would have imagined that the last of those three would make her feel like the first two didn't matter.

She picks an amp to sit on and joins Myka. She looks at the fuming, curly haired beauty. Even when she's angry, Helena thinks, she is _so_ beautiful. "No one has ever flummoxed me the way that you do," she admits to Myka after a while.

Myka turns to look at her, biting on her lower lip. No one flummoxed her the way Helena does, either. She’d never felt like this about anyone, she never thought she _could_ feel like this about anyone. She never thought she could be so madly attracted to someone, so much so that she is willing to bear all of herself to that person, give all of herself to that person, even though she knows that that person is so blinkered by ambition that they would sell their own grandmother to get ahead, let alone a lover.

But she doesn't say it. She doesn't say any of it. She's too angry.

"I would like to make it right, Myka," Helena rubs her palms against her knees, deliberately avoiding eye contact and Myka's wrath, still conflicted about whether or not she deserves it. She is all too aware of her own misgivings, but also of how much it will hurt to be at its focus. "Please tell me how to make it right," she says and adds, "please tell me I can."

Myka wells up and turns her head away, giving the back of her head a deflecting light scratch. She's doing quite well with choking the tears back, but she's not sure what to tell Helena. She wants Helena to make it right, she thinks that if they both agree to it, they can make it right. But she has no idea how to.

Asking for Claudia back is childish and most likely impossible and won't achieve anything. Being completely honest with herself, Warehouse Records can offer Claudia a ton of opportunities that she can't. And while being honest, she knows that Claudia could have been snapped up by any ol' record label at any ol' time, and really, she's so much better off with The Warehouse and Helena than she would have been with any of the other big wigs.

Myka realises – and not for the first time in her life – that honesty is a double edged sword that can never be masterfully wielded. No matter how hard she might try, being honest will wind up wounding her as much as it will others.

She knows Helena doesn't really deserve her anger. Helena didn't know, she did what her job asked her to do, and the hurt that it caused was collateral damage. She may have been an easy target for Myka’s fury, seeing as she was the one who started it all, but Myka is a better person than picking on easy targets. She takes a deep breath in and pushes a slow breath out in an attempt to loosen the tension in her upper body, the tension that's tied to the seething.

"I don't know how, Helena," she says once she's sure her tears won't betray her. Then she takes another deep breath and turns towards Helena. "But I'd like to think that we… that you…" she corrects herself, "that we can," she corrects herself again.

Helena smiles with the smallest relief, looking back at Myka for a long minute. "Would you like me to leave you to it?" she asks, wondering if Myka needs to be left to her own devices, to figure out what she wants.

"I thought you wanted to help clean up."

Helena's smile returns because the fact Myka isn't kicking her out must mean her anger is waning. "Shall we?" she gets up and gestures towards the remaining cables.

"All yours," Myka cedes, "I'm going to get the vacuum cleaner."

Helena continues to wind cables up and watches Myka as she strides across her studio, lovingly rearranging it as she glides, smoothing over the scars left by Claudia's departure.

She thinks of how Myka has so very much to lose and so little with which to bargain. In any other negotiation that would give Helena a great deal of power, but she refuses to take this power in this instance.

Instead, she starts putting together a host of practical ways that may make it right, or at least make it better.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 13: the road to hell (and Myka’s heart) is paved with good intentions.

In the week that follows Helena desperately tries to contact Irene, to no avail. She wants to test the waters with her employer: is she open to the idea of collaborating with a small, local producer who can provide additional expertise in nurturing talent? Who has a gift in not only finding talent, but working with it, shaping it without changing it, fostering a remarkable, collaborative working relationship as well as a fast friendship? All of which are conducive to the kind of creative relationships that last for decades, like Bjork has with Michel Gondry or PJ Harvey has with John Parish.

But Irene Frederic is nowhere to be found, and appears to be a rather out-of-reach employer. Helena thinks that Irene is doing this on purpose; that Irene is a fairy godmother of sorts, only turns up when one needs her most, to provide guidance or course correction.

So in the meantime, Helena continues to work with Claudia; continues to work with the talent Irene sends her way, compiling her second sampler for Warehouse Records; continues to navigate the sea of demos Leena is awash with; continues to trawl YouTube and SoundCloud for music that will catch her ear, her attention.

On this particular evening, Leena and her are sitting on the sofa in the control room sharing herbal teas after a Thai dinner they ordered in. At the end of another torturous, angst-filled, slightly-out-of-tune demo, Helena grunts her frustration, and drops her head into her hands.

"There _are_ other options," Leena says with a smile.

"I'm not entirely sure I can take any more options…" Helena rubs her eyes with the base of her palms and rolls her shoulders backwards.

"Why not kill two birds with one stone—" Leena doesn't get to finish her thought when Helena barges in.

"Leena, please—" Helena starts, but Leena is not interested in Helena's excuses this time.

"—and go out for a drink or two in a couple of the local bars, get a bit of fresh air and alcohol, live music and an eyeful of the person that's been haunting you for the past few months," Leena is just a tad surprised that Helena doesn't attempt to shut her up and actually lets her finish her sentence.

"I can't," Helena lets her cool slip with an exasperated sigh, showing the extent of her frustration.

"Why?" Leena challenges her playfully.

"Because…" Helena tries to think how to word this in a way that won't show any more of her emotions, that won't leave her exposed to Leena. She feels quite vulnerable already, following her conversation with Myka last week and she's not sure that there is a way to keep herself from becoming more vulnerable.

"Seriously, Helena," Leena puts her mug down and turns towards the Master Engineer, whose whole existence is screaming unease, hurt and discomfort. "I want to help," she places a supporting hand on Helena's shoulder, "tell me why."

"Because I can't make it right," Helena mutters bitterly under her breath.

"Make what right?" Leena is looking confused.

"Make right how I so foolishly wronged her," Helena angles a look at Leena, uncertain whether she should be sharing this kind of information with her.

"Wronged the person you've been seeing?"

"Yes."

"What could you have possibly done that's so bad?" Leena asks with a cheeky smirk, slightly dismissively, because she cannot imagine what could be so earth-shatteringly precious to have elicited this kind of response. Plus, she knows that Helena has a hidden, unconfessed flair for the dramatic.

"I took from her," Helena says coldly, "I blindly followed my instinct and ambition and took talent from her. Talent with which she worked so hard. Talent that meant so much to her."

A metaphorical equivalent of the cartoon lightbulb switches on above Leena's head as dots are suddenly connected. "You mean Claudia?" she verifies.

Helena exhales loudly as she nods.

Leena's expression turns serious, thoughtful. She hadn't considered there may have been a price to signing Claudia over to The Warehouse. During the negotiation with Claudia, Leena shared Helena's utter elation, shared the buzz and the high of having such willing, excited participants in the conversation. She knew there was an indie label behind Claudia, but she hadn't considered the people behind the label. She didn't know that those people were the _one person_ that Helena seemed to truly connect with since she arrived at The Warehouse.

Apparently, though, Leena extrapolates further, neither did Helena.

She looks at Helena, who straightens into the sofa and lets her head fall back on the headrest.

"Please share some sage advice, Leena," Helena asks her friend.

Leena sighs. She never considered she would be having these types of conversations with Helena Wells. Leena knows better than anyone that people are a complex host of wants and needs. She can see them reflected in their behaviours, in their eyes, in their bodies, in their auras.

When she first met Helena, she was a stable mix of blues and purples with sparks of gold – a fitting combination for an ambitious, clever and talented woman who knows _exactly_ how good she is. That's partly why she thought she would be a great fit for The Warehouse.

Artie and James carried the Warehouse for years with their brand of innovation and talent development. But their decades of experience left them blinkered, limited by their own methods and preferences, unable to look beyond what they knew.

That resulted in the almost exclusive association of Warehouse Studios with sharp and powerful guitar-bands. In itself, that's not a bad thing. But during the 80s, as electronic music developed and audio technology started catching up with its potential, and with the first signs of the tidal wave that would later become Hip Hop, Artie and James couldn't bring themselves to keep their catalogue up with the times.

This led to the eventual decline of Warehouse Records as a whole, as it splintered into small pockets of pseudo-specialties; lacking true innovation and mastery, lacking an encompassing musical vision to carry them through to the 21st century and beyond.

Helena Wells, however, has something in her that feels to Leena a lot like what Artie and James had in the mid 60s. She has a wholesome acceptance of music that transcends genre and time. Everything is music to Helena; anything can be captured and layered and stacked and by that, become part of a song or a theme. Helena Wells is responsible for technological advancements that enable the capturing of these noises and sounds in simple and effective ways, transferring them, manipulating them, making them into music.

So when she opened an email from her two years ago, requesting an audience with Warehouse Records’ leadership, she was as happy as she was relieved. She knew that Helena has something special to bring to The Warehouse.

And she was right. Helena's mix of tenacity, talent, technological advancement, technical mastery and utter fearlessness ushered in a new age for The Warehouse, with a host of talent that – in the short months Helena had been working there – catapulted the Warehouse right to the forefront, the cutting edge of the music industry.

But now, Helena is distracted. Less than two weeks after onboarding Claudia Donovan, probably the most promising talent Leena has ever had the pleasure to share a studio with, Helena is conflicted about the very act of onboarding her, because that act hurt someone close to Helena.

Leena knew there was someone – she noticed that a few months back, after Helena went to Voodoo, and a handful of times after that. But she didn't realise it was serious. She didn't know that person is also in the biz. She didn't realise how deeply they affected Helena.

"You care about her," Leena states a fact to confirm her assumption.

"I do."

Leena remains silent, waiting for Helena to offer more – more details of what had happened, more about that person, more of what she was feeling for this person, more of what she thought she could do to fix the situation they are in.

But Helena says nothing.

Helena, other than frustration and anger for having dug herself in this hole, feels sorry for Myka. She feels sorry for Myka because Myka walked into this dreadful business with such hope and such integrity only to be taken out right at the finish line by someone who is simply better equipped than she is.

Had she known Myka had opened a studio, had she known she was working with talent, she'd have sought her out sooner. Helped her. She knows, from the years she'd spent on the periphery of the music-making world – that there is little room for idealism in the indie music business. Just a lot of hard work.

"Well," Leena yanks Helena from her bog of self-pity, "you're anything if not a resourceful woman, HG."

Helena looks at Leena from the end of her tether. "Is that it?"

Leena nods knowingly. "I think you know what you need to do," she smiles her mysterious smile and gets up.

Helena's jaw hangs as she watches her hopes for wisdom breeze through the door to the booth with the cryptic, curly haired Studio Manager, and feels like this specific piece of advice might as well have been dished by Irene Frederic herself.

"You know what?" Leena turns around and faces Helena in her despair.

Helena shakes her head dumbly.

"You want sage advice?" she looks Helena straight in the eye, "then here it is: go home. Get some rest, sleep on it, drink on it, take a bath. Just don't come back here until you have a plan," her words are stern. Mothering.

Helena has never been mothered before. It's a strange sensation to be given orders like that from someone who wants what's best for her, who is on her side.

In the absence of other options, she decides to allow herself to be mothered and she leaves The Warehouse early.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the course of three weeks, Helena pulls every string she has. She rings contacts from Detroit, from the company she used to work for, she cashes in favours she never knew she had stored and manages to send Myka a handful of mix & master gigs, and a couple of live recording sessions.

Helena feels pretty pleased with herself when she gets a text message from Myka, the first since all this had happened:

'Hey. Thank you so much for sending the Trident guys from Detroit my way. I really appreciate it. Talk soon, M.'

To which she responds:

'The pleasure is all mine. I have something else in the pipeline for you, something I reckon you'd like.'

The speed at which Myka's response lands in her phone cheers her up, until she reads its content:

'I really appreciate it, but you don't have to do this. I'm fine. The label is fine. Really :). M.'

Her initial response is that this isn't Myka typing. Myka doesn't use emoticons. Once she convinces herself to get over that bugbear, she struggles to understand why Myka is telling her – politely – to back the bloody hell away.

She knows how independent Myka is, she knows her well enough to not try and spoon-feed her. She _is_ trying to make up for the glamorous start Myka's label would have had, had she not signed Claudia away from her. She wants to fix this mess by making sure Myka gets a leg up and builds a name for herself, a name she deserves. So she responds:

'I've not done much at all. I've only made a few phone calls. Securing the Trident gigs is entirely your victory, darling.'

To which Myka doesn't respond.

From then on, a similar exchange of polite messages occurs every time Myka wins some work from the leads Helena's network churns, until Helena's pipeline comes through: it's a band from Athens, Georgia, who (perhaps not so ironically) seem to be following in the musical footsteps of the legendary Athenians, REM. They are fairly established with their homemade recordings, and their manager, who is an old friend of Helena's old boss, was looking for a very specific feel of a recording studio and recording staff for his special new band's debut album.

Helena is in a supermarket doing her weekly shop, way past anyone's bedtime, when her phone rings. She doesn't recognise the number.

"Wells. Can I help?" she answers.

"Your poxy recording studio turned me down," a crisp British accent barks at her from the other side.

"Vincent?" she makes sure she has the right person with the right context on the line.

"Don't you 'Vincent' me, Helena. You told me that Success will take us on board," he is near-as-damn-it yelling.

"I said no such thing, Vince," she answers with the confidence of a person who has details on their side. "I said you should investigate, that she may be a good fit."

"You know where I am, Helena?"

Helena rolls her eyes, because Vincent Crowley has been around artists for so long, he's developed the temperament of one. "No, Vincent. I do not," she indulges him with what little patience she has.

"I'm at the bloody airport at half one in the morning," he answers. "And do you know what I'm doing at the airport at half one in the morning?"

Helena sighs silently. "No, Vincent. I do not."

"I'm at the bloody airport because I just got off a plane from visiting your poxy studio thinking I had it booked!"

"Don't you think you should be having this conversation with your PA, Vince?" Helena continues with her shopping, thankful that the aisles are empty.

"Well, I think she _is_ a good fit," Vincent sounds appeased, "I simply cannot comprehend why she wouldn't take us on."

Helena can read between the lines. There is an implicit request in Vincent's outburst. "Would you like me to check in with her tomorrow?"

"Would you be a dear?"

Helena rolls her eyes again. "Only for you, Vince."

 

* * *

 

 

The following morning Helena arranges to come and see Myka at her studio. From the word go, Helena is trying to understand why Myka isn't taking Vincent's band on for what she believes is an opportunity of a lifetime.

Myka isn't providing her with anything that Helena would qualify as a logical explanation. She is sitting at the mixing desk working on something, answering succinctly and factually, with what sounds like little or no emotion.

Helena reckons Myka isn't giving her her full attention, so she leans against the mixing desk and looks at her intently.

"This was the big job I told you about, a project I thought you would rather enjoy," Helena almost pleads with Myka. What she isn't saying, though, because she believes Myka knows it damn well, is that Helena hopes that this band will be to Myka's label what Claudia would have been.

"Really, Helena," Myka smiles up at her. "You can stop now." Her tone is almost forgiving.

"Do you not want this?" Helena insists, confused. She was sure this would be right up Myka's ally. She was sure this would make things right.

Myka shrugs as she looks away from those confused brown eyes. She can't say no to them, but she needs to say no right now. She doesn't want Helena's charity, she doesn't want her help. She wants to be able to find her feet, because what happened with Claudia could happen with every single artist she works with and she needs to know she can bounce back from that, preferably without Helena's involvement, because god knows how long Helena will stick around for.

But having Helena with her feels comfortable; having her in her studio feels like she has company, company that understands her, that doesn't judge her. Company that wants to be there and is willing to help, for now, at least.

And even though she has to say no to those eyes that ask her to take on a project she doesn't feel is hers for the taking, she doesn't want to say no to those eyes that used to ask her for _something else_. So she holds her hand out, palm facing up, towards Helena, even though she's still busy with the sliders and knobs in front of her.

Helena doesn't know anymore. She doesn't know what Myka is doing, she doesn't know what Myka is asking of her. But the tense familiarity that they share pushes her to respond to Myka's peace offering, and she takes her hand tentatively.

Myka's eyes come back up to meet hers. "It's okay," she whispers. "You can owe me."

Helena is baffled and dumbfounded and not sure why Myka is turning down this stonker of an opportunity she just handed to her. She's worked so hard and sacrificed so much to get Vincent and his band over, to get them to agree to this, to work with a producer they don't know, in a town they don't know, in a studio they don't know that's out in the… Helena can't even think of an appropriate snarky description for the location of Myka's studio because "sticks" doesn't cut it; and if it were the _middle_ of nowhere, one were bound to stumble upon it, but this isn't the middle. This is on the far reaches of nowhere, close to the border with neverwas.

Why, then, in the name of all that is holy, is Myka passing this up? She searches for an answer in the features of Myka's face: the crisp line of her nose and the rounded dip at its bridge; the soft curves of her cheeks and their smooth slopes down to her jawline. And lips. Those soft lips.

But there is no answer to be found. Not to _this_ puzzle, not to _this_ complication.

There is an answer, however, to something that's not confusing to Helena at all, and that answer is in the distraction, the inspiration that Myka sparks in her.

So she leans in and kisses Myka.

Helena kisses her lightly, gently, as if she is asking her with this kiss that Myka take this band on. But she is probably asking her for something else entirely. Helena is asking for Myka to tell her what she wants.

And Myka does.

She kisses Helena back, and tightens the grip on Helena's hand, and she gets up so she can kiss Helena more tangibly; with one hand at the small of her back and the other at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, so that they have no choice but to press their lips harder as well.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 14: some pennies drop and temptation waits.

It turns out that Pete takes his guardian angel duties very very seriously. Not only has he been part of Claudia's tour machine, he keeps tabs, and demands audiences from time to time.

This is one of those times. Only this time, he's got a serious look on his face when Claudia approaches what seems to be his usual table at Best in the West.

Claudia, who's always so worried about Steve, can't help it that his safety is the first place her mind goes to, so she hastens her step and only half-sits on what has now become her usual chair at Pete's usual table.

"Is everything okay?" she asks in a hushed tone.

Pete arches a brow, "Steve's fine, if that's what you're wondering," he puts her mind at ease in an instant, and she knows already to not wonder about or question Pete's vibes and intuition. "I'm here about something else entirely."

His voice sounds very concerned to Claudia, bordering on menacing, and her instinct of putting her guard up is overwhelming, so she tenses where she sits and dons a defiant expression.

"Easy, Tiger," Pete reaches across the table, "I was over at Myka's today and I wanted to know what the hell is going on."

Pete is not menacing at all, he's protective. He is _really_ protective of Myka, he knows how much she went through and how much she sacrificed and it will be _over his dead body_ (and Pete is actually likely to mean that literally) that she fails.

And Claudia picks up on that. She picks up on the fierce loyalty that Pete is feeling towards Myka. During the tour she thought Pete was crushing on her (a suspicion Steve agreed with but Myka dismissed), but now she recognises this combination and intensity of feelings, because that's how she feels about Steve.

"What do you mean 'what the hell is going on'?" Claudia asks, because she's not sure what he knows already.

Pete presses his lips shut in a valiant (and successful) effort to not let anything stupid or hurtful slip. He then takes a deep breath in, releases it out slowly through his nose, and says calmly, "You aren't signed to Myka anymore."

Claudia nods slowly. "Is that all she told you?"

"She told me you got signed by a bigger label," he speaks with the same practiced control of an experienced interrogator.

Claudia fights to not cock a half smile at that, because it's not just a bigger label, it's the _biggest_ freakin' label, because it's _Warehouse_ freakin' _Records_. "I got signed by Warehouse Records, Pete," she says with similar control and calm to those of Pete's. "Their chief engineer heard me play and signed me up."

Pete doesn't know too much about the music business, but that sounds off to him. Why would Claudia do that? Why would she leave Myka like that? After everything Myka's done for her? After everything they've achieved together?

And for Pete, this is a double blow, because all the vibes he got from Myka and Claud when they were working together and when he got to see them separately (which was rare over the months they were recording and touring) their vibes were so smooth and harmonious. They really felt like great friends.

Pete knows what a great friend Myka is. He _feels_ it every single day. He's been feeling how great a friend she is for the twelve odd years they've known each other, and he's witnessed first-hand how strongly Myka loves those who are close to her.

He hadn't experienced it with Claudia. With Claudia, half the story came from Steve, and the other half came from Claudia – but by proxy – how she was with and around Myka, the chemistry between them and how admiring she was of Myka when Myka wasn't looking. How admiring Myka was of Claudia, when Claudia wasn't looking. And if Myka admires someone… Pete knows to admire them too.

So Claudia leaving just because some other label snapped its fingers is just not adding up.

"Why?" is all he can muster.

"Warehouse Records, Pete," Claudia leans towards him, enunciating the name.

"That means nothing to me," he leans as well, mirroring her gesture.

"The Warehouse is…" she stops and thinks, "was…" thinks again, " _is_ one of the most influential records labels of all time. They are the most innovative label out there."

"But what about Myka?"

"Myka is still a part of it if she wants to be," Claudia explains, but she can tell Pete is not convinced. So she decides to spell it out for him, "First of all, she got paid—"

"It was never about the money for her," Pete defends his friend.

Claudia shushes him with a hand gesture, "—and second of all, she is _still_ my producer. And HG said she could _still be_ my producer," Claudia feels righteousness rising within her. "All that happened, _really_ , was getting the financial backing and distribution network and connections of a label that has been around since the invention of Rock'n'Roll," she emphasises with tapping her stretched index finger on the soft tablecloth, "and Myka can _still_ be part of _all that_ and _still_ keep her rights and _still_ keep her label," Claudia is nearly finished, because the most important point she was trying to make is this next thing, "Because all that actually happened was the financial risk is now with someone who can take it."

"So Warehouse Records will just let you use Myka as your producer?" Pete summarises his understanding, wishing, somewhere at the back of his mind, that he had listened to all those times Myka told him about contracting strategies, but now, like it did then, his mind wanders to desserts.

"Yes," Claudia nods firmly.

"Why?"

"Because that's the deal I negotiated," Claudia half smiles, because she is just so damn proud of herself for having negotiated that deal. "HG was keen, and I would never leave Myka in a lurch."

Pete is processing what Claudia's telling him, at a speed that's a little bit slower than the speed at which she dispenses her side of the story.

"I get that she's upset, that you're upset that I'm not _technically_ with Success Records," she seeks Pete's eyes. He looks lost in information. "But it's all _technicalities_. Myka keeps all the winnings, keeps her seat at the table, and gets to play on someone else's dime."

Things are slowly falling into place for Pete, and while he sees how Myka's stake at Claudia Donovan, Musical Prodigy Inc. was protected and her future was been safeguarded (according to what Claudia says), something is still not sitting right with him. Myka was upset, on edge, tense. She was almost angry, but not. And now it’s _Myka_ who doesn't make sense in Pete’s equation, because she is sensible and logical and business-minded, so she should have seen that this is _all good_.

So there must be something else that's bothering her, something beyond the logic. Beyond the business.

He's only ever seen her like this, upset beyond logic, one other time. That was when Sam said that— … and that's when the penny drops. That's when one itty bitty bit of detail that got lost in Claudia's version of events remains standing amongst the filtered and filed facts, like one sparkling, silver needle in the black ashes of what used to be a haystack.

It's not business that's getting Myka's panties in a bunch. It's the person doing the business.

And that person has a name, a name Pete heard before.

"Back that up a second," his left hand is circling counter clockwise in the air for a few seconds. He runs everything through his memory again, to make sure that this really is the only bit of information that could explain the state Myka's been in. When he stops, he looks Claudia dead in the eyes. "HG?"

Now, if this is the same HG, HG that's a Helena, Helena Wells, the one Pete knows from ages ago, from when he first met Myka, that HG that only had eyes for Myka, at least for the time she was in DC, then this will be plain surreal.

Surreal because this will have been the second time that Claudia Donovan name-dropped someone that he knows. (Pete would like to think HG Wells was close to him, but he could never get as close as he wanted to her at the time, and it wasn't until after HG had gone back to where she came from that he found out the extent of why).

Claudia nods silently.

"HG Wells?" Pete asks.

And Claudia nods.

"Helena G. Wells?" He asks again.

She nods and adds, "I don't know what the G. stands for," before he has a chance to ask.

"Un-be-freakin'-leavable," Pete leans back in his chair. "If I had a napkin, I'll have thrown it across my plate in anger," he gestures towards his just-about empty plate.

"What?" Claudia leans forward, because things – apparently – just got a lot more interesting.

"I mean," Pete chortles and looks up, "what are the odds?"

"The odds of what?" Claudia is trying to get something from him

"The odds that they would both land at the same place at the same time all these years after," Pete says.

"Who?" Claudia says before her brain processes that Pete is taking about Myka and HG, and Claudia remembers that there was _a someone_ , a someone Myka had a _thing_ with a while back, a someone Myka bumped into again and they were sort of dating, and it was sort of going well.

And her face falls slack because now her penny drops as well.

And she cannot help the past tense of her train of thought a moment ago, and wonders if it is indicative of the current status of the new _thing_. If the new thing has now become a thing of the past, yet again.

"Oh my god," she sighs and slumps, "HG is the person Myka was seeing…"

Pete nods, because this confirms a theory he's been developing since they were touring: he had guessed by the way Myka was behaving, by the things she wasn't saying more than the things she was, that she had someone special in her life again. He just hadn't imagined – not even in his wildest dreams (which occasionally _are_ occupied by HG and Myka, not that he would ever tell Myka, because he would like to retain his reproductive abilities) – that that person would be HG Wells.

And even more, he wouldn't have imagined that HG Wells would have been the person to come between Myka and her talent, Myka and her friend.

And _that_ explains why Myka is so twitchy.

 

* * *

 

 

Myka fidgets with her phone while sitting on the front steps of her farmhouse just after sunset. She wants to make this call, but it may be an awkward call to make. It seems as though the simple life that she had hoped to start by owning a small recording studio and record label in a small town next to nowhere hasn't really panned out.

Life, she thinks with a sigh, has a habit of just getting complicated.

All of a sudden, reputations are at stake because of her and that's an uncomfortable place for her to be, even though it's not her own reputation she's concerned about. At the same time, feelings are at stake as well, and that's equally uncomfortable for her, because this forces to admit that she has those feelings, and she's concerned with those feelings; her own, and other people's. Helena’s.

Admitting these feelings means admitting that this thing with Helena is no longer just for fun. This is no longer an animalistic attraction thing. This isn't even the mad, artistic pull they have. Admitting these feelings means admitting that what she has for Helena is _more_.

She knows, as much as she doesn't like to really admit it, she _knows_ that this is something bigger, and she can't even bring herself to _think_ of _that_ word.

Two days ago Helena came by to her studio and Helena was anxious. She'd never seen Helena anxious. Helena is always so suave and confident (damn her), but two days ago she was… agitated. Upset. Sort of hurt. It's like she took the fact that Myka refused to work with Vincent Crowley's band personally.

But that's not the reason why she didn't take them on. She didn't do it to get even with Helena or to piss her off. She did it for purely professional reasons, and she wants Helena to know. She wants Helena to know that this has nothing to do with payback for Claudia, because when Helena came around Myka couldn’t talk. Helena appears to render Myka unable to articulate herself in any way, unless they are talking about music.

In fact, she wants to tell Helena that the whole Claudia business is water under the bridge, and, if anything, she's just so immensely pleased that of all the big labels, Claudia wound up with The Warehouse, with Helena.

Myka sighs and unlocks her phone and wishes for her words to not betray her this time.

She idly scans through her notifications, rehearses the words she wants to say and tests herself that she really is _this_ mature about it all. That she really is okay with Claudia being signed to The Warehouse. So by the time her notification line has been cleared, she agrees that she is really okay with it, that she really did make peace with Claudia's move, and that it really was the right thing, and that she harbours absolutely no hard feelings towards either of them.

The feelings she _does_ harbour towards Helena come up again, and they aren't hard at all, quite the opposite, actually, and she takes in a deep breath. "Like ripping a band aid," she mumbles and finds Helena's number on her phone, and while pushing the remains of her breath forcefully through pursed lips, she dials.

"Wells," Helena answers so professionally and calmly, even though she knows it's Myka calling.

"Hey," Myka greets her shyly with small smile, "Can you talk? I wanted to explain."

"Explain what?" Helena asks in return.

"Explain what happened with Vincent Crowley and his band," she nods slowly, hoping that her explanation comes out right.

"Go on, then," Helena replies. She is sitting in her front room with a large glass of red wine cradled in her hand and a book in her lap. She has taken Leena's advice more seriously and has begun taking some time for herself. She is willing to forgo some of that time if favour of work matters, seeing as she is rather keen to understand what had happened with Vince, because two days ago she didn't get any answers.

She got kissed, meaningfully, passionately. But she got no answers.

She hears Myka breathing in, readying herself.

"I don't know those guys, Vincent's band," Myka starts, "I'd only heard their last EP, and even that was for the two and a half seconds that Vincent actually let me listen to them," she starts.

Helena smiles a knowing smile, because this sounds exactly like Vincent. He'll have stormed into Myka's booth, shoved a CD or a USB-dongle-thing in Myka's hand, pushed her to put it on, but not give her any time to take any of it in. He'll have just gone on and on about why she'd be such a great fit for his amazing band and how they are the best thing to hit the charts since the musical equivalent of sliced bread.

"He was here on his own, they didn't come, so I didn't actually get to see how they work, and he wanted an answer there and then, and he was pushy and over-selling everything…" Myka continues.

And it's clear to Helena now, when she pictures Myka in her control room with Vincent, his presence filling the whole of that space, until there was no room for Myka – or anyone – to be around him. That's when Vincent needs to be handled by an entourage: producers and engineers and a rep and a manager and a PA (or six).

But that control room was all he would get if Myka had said yes. That room, and Myka. That's it. No entourage, no PAs. Just that studio and Myka running it.

Helena, on the other hand, has the backing of a colossus recording outfit, the kind that builds entourages, the kind that has a massive network of people in the sound engineering and recording industry. So had she been the one to take Vincent's band and wound up not standing the sound (or sight, or smell) of them, she'd have found another engineer or producer for them to work with.

Myka only has _Myka_. And her network consists mostly of Pete Lattimer, her ex-partner in the secret service, and her sister. And – well – Claudia Donovan.

"This could have been a disaster. If I said yes and they turned out to be a bunch of thunderfraks, and we couldn't work together - I'd have been screwed," Myka concludes. "It's a risk I couldn't take, Helena," she says softly. "Do you get it?"

Helena closes her eyes with a faint sigh, because she gets it. Of course she gets it. And of course Myka will have had a perfectly good, honest and diligent reason to do what she had done. Of course she did. This is _Myka_ , after all, and these are only some of the reasons why Helena likes her so much. "I do," she whispers.

A silence settles between them, more comfortable than any other they've shared.

"So…" Myka drawls, "I was thinking–" she starts and pauses to think about what she wants to say: the only way Myka knows how to move the axis of their relationship back to where it ought to be is by doing the one thing they do _beyond_ well together, and that's making music. "I was wondering if you wanted to add another album to our reproduction set?"

Helena opens her eyes and her smile widens. She would like nothing more. "What album do you have in mind?"

 

* * *

 

 

For the past 24 hours Claudia's mind is buzzing like a beehive. She keeps working through the everything that had happened with Myka since they met until now, because she's convinced she should have known _something_.

Happy chirps from her phone just barely pierce the thick drone of her thoughts.

Within seconds of each other, Claudia gets a text from Myka and an email from Helena, both requesting she joined them at Myka's studio, after she familiarised herself with Suzanne Vega's 99.9F.

She isn't sure why they are asking this of her, but the fact it comes from the both of them makes it feel like a necessity.

Plus, Myka is her friend and she will do whatever she asks.

And, Helena is kind of her boss now, so she needs to do what she says.

 _And_ – Claudia is damn curious to find out what the hell is going on between those two.

So with one hand she texts and emails back to say she'll be there, and with the other she searches for 99.9F on her iPod.

Claudia knows the album. Hell, everyone knows the album, it's a classic. She doesn't know it as well as Helena and Myka do, that was evident from the first few hours they spend in Myka's studio, when they wasted absolutely no time and recorded the first song of the album, Rock in this Pocket.

She decides she _so_ needs to up her game to be able to match Myka and Helena's musical prowess, and that's a hard thing to do because they are like mad scientists when you put them in a studio on their own; but together, they are The Manhattan Project of music making so production happens at an insane pace.

It's magical, it's beautiful, and Claudia feels like she's falling in love with recording all over again.

Their arrangement fits the song perfectly: Claudia on electric guitar, Helena on acoustic, Myka on drums. It sounds entirely different to the original, even though it is virtually the same, note for note. Beat for beat.

They record it live a couple of times, with the view of embellishing afterwards, if they want. Claudia and Myka swap the lead and background vocal. It's spellbinding how it happens, that Myka and she agree who sings what without talking about it in advance, it just happens, organically, as they play.

The whole thing sounds rawer and probably a little bit more honest than the original recording, because when they sing 'and I'm really well acquainted with the span of your brow, so if you didn't know me then – you'll know me now' together, Claudia sings to every person who ever doubted her; and Myka looks at Helena (who doesn't notice because she's completely in the moment with her guitar) and something electric or chemical or biological or whatever charges the air and Claudia feels it and it almost makes her miss her cue for the final bridge that closes the song.

In just under two hours they have Rock in this Pocket down. When they sit in the control room to listen to it with a proper balance, Claudia realises that she never really heard Myka sing before. Her voice reminds her of Suzanne Vega's, with undertones of a whispered gravel.

It makes her wonder – again – why Myka never plays on stage.

They go in to set up for Blood Makes Noise, and Helena says she thinks all three of them should sing. Then Myka and Helena talk about instrumentation for the whole of three seconds, and before Claudia gets a word in, it's a done deal, with Helena and Claudia on basses (yes, two of them) and Myka's in charge of guitar noises.

After a couple of goes with this set up, Myka and Claudia swap, and that makes for a smoother and considerably more fun run of it.

Helena doesn't so much sing as she speaks the lyrics, but it works really well with Claud and Myka pinning the melody underneath.

In the control room, after they balance, Claudia checks the track list and to make sure she remembers what's next. When Helena goes to get them drinks, she elbows the tall engineer. "You ready for this one?"

"What do you mean?" Myka is all smiles and bouncy energy, and Claudia thinks she may be a bit oblivious to what the next song, In Liverpool, might mean to Helena or her.

She gives Myka a look, a distinct Claudia-type look that tells her she needs to get her brain in gear and come to some other kind of conclusion.

"It's fine," Myka mouths to her as Helena walks back in.

"In Liverpool next," Helena declares jovially and places three mugs of hot tea on the small crate they use as a coffee table.

Claudia is still not convinced either musical genius in front of her have actually clocked the emotional undertow that the lyrics of In Liverpool may stir, so she decides to try and force the manic pace down a bit. "So, uh…" she starts, and takes her time. Picks up a mug, blows across the top of it to cool the drink down. "What do you think about this one?"

"Oh, Myka should do keys," Helena, who is also buzzing, is the first to answer.

"Yeah," curls bounce excitedly with an exuberant nod and Myka points at Helena, "and Helena on the 5-string bass, if…" she then turns and points towards Claudia, "if – Claud – you're okay to guitar it?"

"I was thinking of acoustic guitar but with an effect rig. I have a couple of distortions that will warm and dirty it up a bit," she plays along with the conversation…

Myka's face lights up, "That sounds so cool," she smiles crookedly and sips from her mug.

…but she reminds herself she is there to slow them down. "So…" Claudia starts again, with her own noticeable brand of subtlety, "who's gonna sing?"

Silence.

Claudia's mind screams _'Banzai!'_ because she totally nailed just how un-fine it will be for either one of them to sing this. She also finds it secretly hilarious – the awkward looks that Helena and Myka exchange from above rims of their mugs.

Helena bails first, "I'm going to switch on the Marshall, let the valves warm up," she disappears into the studio to fiddle with the bass and its very analogue amplifier.

Claudia screws Myka a blatant 'I told you so' look, to which Myka responds with a scrunched face. "I need to get the keyboard and piano set up." She heads towards the studio door, realises Helena's in thereand backtracks, "But I should really print the lyrics out first," and that's the lamest excuse in the history of lame excuses (which she won’t even dignify with an eyeroll), because nobody needed lyrics until now and Claudia seriously doubts the fact Myka doesn't know the lyrics to _this_ song.

Myka sits behind the mixing desk and searches for the lyrics online, Helena is in the studio, with her back to the glass. Claudia, who believes she is partially responsible for this cold front, decides to break the ice. She leans on the mixing desk, just behind Myka, and presses the intercom button, so Helena can her what she's about to say too. She clears her throat purposefully, Helena turns around and Myka shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I think," Claudia enunciates, "that Myka should sing lead on this one and HG and I should do vocals," and removes her fingers from the button ceremoniously, cocking Myka a victorious look.

"Fine," Myka sighs, gets up with a humph and walks to the printer to pick up the lyric sheet. She then walks into the studio, not without glaring at Claudia.

It takes a while to do the setup for In Liverpool because they each chose to use analogue amps (that need micing) instead of DIs (that hook directly to the desk). They each test the different sounds of their instruments – Claudia with an analogue overdrive pedal, a digital overdrive pedal and her amp stack's built-in distortion. She's pleased with the warmth of one, crispness of the other and grit of the third. She also tests a couple of combinations. Yeah, she nods happily. This will definitely work.

She looks over to Helena who practices the bass licks from memory: her head is tilted backwards with eyes closed, and she sways to an imaginary beat while her fingers work the thick neck of the five-string like it were butter.

She looks towards Myka, on the other side of the room, whose eyes are fixed on Helena while she sets the keyboard up on top of the baby grand.

Claudia smiles to herself and thinks she has the best seats in the house to watch this: in the blue corner, in the buttoned up top, with a staggering record of audio innovation is Helena "Daahling" Wells. In the red corner, in a t-shirt that only gets tucked in the front, with talent yet to be matched in this ring (and beyond) is Myka "It's Fine" Bering.

As she hears the bell ding in her imagination she takes her guitar off and goes to set up everyone's vocal mics.

Myka smiles at her when she props up the stand.

"How do you want it?" Claudia asks.

Myka finishes arranging the third mic around the piano and takes her place behind the keys to think how she wants to do this. "I'll stand," she says, and that's all Claudia needs to know to set the mic up.

By the time she makes her way to Helena's corner, Myka is invested in testing the balance of the piano mics and the DI of the keyboard. Helena, on the other hand, is invested in Myka.

Claudia smiles broadly at Helena who's completely unaware of the redhead's presence, because she, with her tongue suggestively touching her top lip, is openly and unashamedly ogles Myka as she works.

"Here okay?" Claudia asks, knowing it will startle Helena.

And Helena is startled, turns to Claudia like she's been woken from a dream and nods affirmatively.

Claudia beams at her and goes back into the control room where she can queue up the equipment. When she's done, she goes back into the studio, takes her guitar and her place in the middle of the room, with Helena to her left and Myka to her right. "Ready?" she asks with a smirk.

Myka takes a deep breath, "Yeah," she says with a breath that's on the trembling side of shaky.

Helena puts her headphones on and nods with a confident smile.

"Okay, then," Claudia calls them to their marks. "Myka will count us in – as and when she's ready."

The first take of it is a bit ropey. The guitar sound needs a bit of tweaking, the balance in the mix-down channel is off, there's a rattle coming from the piano.

Oh, and Myka doesn't sing a note.

The second take is better, there are a few more technical glitches, and Myka still doesn't sing.

At the end of the fifth take they sound pretty frakking amazing: Myka starts the song with low, slow and soft chords on the piano. Helena enters on the third bar, playing the same riff, but an octave higher, past the 12th fret of the bass. Claudia chimes in with a hint of distortion that sounds like someone is dragging the acoustic on a dirt track. In the chorus, Claudia crisps the sound up for an artful mix of rhythm and lead, Helena points and syncopates just where she needs to and her bass sounds like molasses, and Myka leaves her left hand on the piano and moves her right to the keyboard that hums with the rich, smooth sound of a Hammond.

But Myka hasn't sung a single word.

"Okay, that was awesome," Claudia commentates from her post and looks over to Helena. "What do you think?"

Helena nods.

"And you?" Claudia turns to Myka.

"Yeah," Myka nods. "It's fine," she adds distractedly.

"You want to try it with the singing next?" Claudia asks in a way that may sound pushy to anyone who didn't know her.

She clocks Myka looking at Helena for a long moment who returns her gaze. Then the bio-chemical electricity thing happens again, and Myka closes her eyes and counts them in. Helena closes her eyes as well, nodding gently with Myka's count.

And this time, Myka sings.

Myka sounds hesitant and shy and real – _so_ real – when she sings those lyrics, like she was the one in Liverpool, on Sunday, witnessing light so pale and thin it reminded her of someone.

Of Helena.

And at the end of the chorus, when she sings 'he sounds like he's missing something or someone that he knows he can't have now; and if he isn't – I certainly am' it's so obvious that she _really feels it_ , that Claudia's sure Myka's missing could be seen from space.

At the last verse, Myka opens her eyes and looks straight at Helena, who looks back at her, and she tells Helena that she shouldn't really remember Helena, except for the fact she'd missed her so damn much, it hurts.

Only in other words than that, because that's how Suzanne Vega wrote it.

When they go in to the crescendo at the end of the last chorus, Helena is asking questions with her bass that Myka answers with her piano, and Claudia is covering all that with a feathery chorus of backing vocals. And then Helena joins. And then Myka.

And it sounds to Claudia like all the questions are asked and answered right there, with these lyrics, with this music.

To mark the beginning of the last bar, Myka nods sharply and they close the song with a long, ringing F Major.

Claudia stops the recording after the piano's sustain is no longer audible, and cannot help how wide her smile is growing, because _that_ is what music is to Claudia. _That_ was capturing a real moment, with a real truth and real emotion that are all too raw to be expressed in any other way.

She looks at Myka who stands behind her piano, and then at Helena who stands behind her bass, and they have seventeen paces between them, and they’re looking like they have so much more to say to each other now that they told each other the things this song has to say.

"I'll leave you two crazy kids to it," Claudia says quietly, knowing neither Myka nor Helena are listening to her, takes off her guitar, switches off the amps, and walks out of the studio into the control room, making sure the door behind her is shut firmly.

She presses the button that turns the glass wall between the control room and the studio opaque and kills the volume of the ambient mics in the studio, so she can't see or hear what goes on inside. Instead, she sits down to balance the take they've just recorded.

In the studio, Myka and Helena start off looking at each other from across those seventeen paces, neither of them sure of what they need to say or do to start clearing whatever it was that messed them up.

The do, eventually, talk through everything they need to talk through (and haven’t talked through until now) to come to grips with everything that happened since they met on that Saturday afternoon in that coffee place on Main Street, everything that happened since Helena left Myka's apartment in DC almost twelve years ago.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 15: observations of partnership.

Helena doesn't spend many nights at the Warehouse anymore. In fact, she spends very few nights at the Warehouse, and she does every single thing within her power to leave the Warehouse before 8pm, because it takes an hour to get to Myka's, or it takes Myka an hour to get to hers, and they sort of need to be in bed by 11, if they want to be any kind of productive the day after.

It's not like they moved in together, but after they finished recording 99.9F, and they talked themselves silly with all that had happened since the last time the saw each other in DC and since the first time they met again in that coffee shop on Main St., the both of them realised that living the lesbian cliché will probably not be helpful given their lifestyles, professions and past behaviour.

In light of those, they agree, initially, to _date_. Officially, without excuses or ambiguity.

But what started out as a sensible (and sort of romantic) attempt at getting to know each other properly like _normal_ people, soon becomes a hindrance. So they agree to let go of any pretense of normal, and instead of doing the bit where they pay for parking and food and drinks only to end up spending the night in one of their beds, they decide after six or so dates that they are not normal people, and they can date each other in each other’s homes.

It's gone 8pm now, and Helena is packing up, saving the day's work and clearing out the control room, because she's going to be working with Claudia at Myka's studio for a few days. Helena packs up her notebook, the one where she keeps detailed set-ups and configurations to Claudia's recording preferences, the one where she has track lists and production notes and the design of each of the songs – how the different layers play in her mind and how they all blend together.

"I can hear you watching me, you know," she speaks, to whom she believes is Leena.

"The Legendary HG Wells, who can hear other senses," Leena comments from the doorway to The Warehouse’s control room with a smile.

"Indeed," Helena grunts as she crouches under the mixing desk, checking that the wiring she fiddled with earlier that day is intact. She is precise with her movements, more efficient than gracious.

"You're in a rush," the studio manager states.

"I am," Helena grunts again as she stands up, patting wrinkles off of her clothes.

"So this may not be a good time to tell you that Irene decided to sign that girl, second cousin to Sia and Gaga? Step-grandchild of Bjork's? That singer whose tantrums you courageously endured last year?" Leena describes and hopes Helena remembers.

Of course Helena remembers.

"She's going to be here tomorrow with Irene to review her demos and talk plans," Leena breaks the news casually.

Helena pauses and turns around to meet Leena's gaze.

Much like Helena had either imagined or _sensed_ , Leena is casually leaning against the door to the control room, casually wearing a casual smile, and holding a message note in her right hand. Helena has now learned to know that this casual smile is the one Leena wears after she gets a one-to-one with the big boss.

"Tomorrow?" Helena blinks slowly, confirming the message.

Leena hums and nods her confirmation, still smiling. "Not too early, though," she hands Helena the note.

Helena reads the note carefully. "Midday," she says. "And what am I to do with Claudia's schedule, prey tell?" she asks the curly haired woman petulantly.

"Oh, I think you know what to do with Claudia," Leena smirks and walks away. "See you tomorrow, HG, " she calls from down the hall.

Helena bids a polite farewell to Lena before sighing and muttering to herself some vexing words about investment and ethics and promises that she should be able (or perhaps _be_ _allowed_ ) to keep. As she switches the lights off at The Warehouse, it dawns upon her that _this_ is the freedom Myka relishes, the freedom she risks a steady paycheque and dental insurance for.

On the drive up to Myka's Helena thinks about freedom. Sure, she'd flirted with the idea of becoming an independent herself, and when it came to working for Irene or going solo, she opted for Warehouse Records, because that would give her a solid grounding, a network. And also a steady paycheque and dental.

She remembers the time she was considering Irene's offer to her, and at the time, she was thinking that she could start her own label whenever she pleased, but Warehouse Studios comes once in a lifetime.

So she considers "whenever she pleases" now. Could she quit The Warehouse now and go solo? Does she have the guts for it? Does she have the nerves and the stomach?

Myka certainly does.

Perceptions are a funny thing, she smiles to herself, because from what she'd known of the old Myka, the Myka of nearly 12 years ago, she wouldn't have even considered that the tightly wound, prim and proper Secret Service agent would dare to leave the Service, let alone open her own recording studio and effectively start a label.

This thought turns her smile thoughtful. She'd known Myka was brave – it takes courage to sign up to the Service, to vow to take a bullet for someone. But setting up an independent label… that takes true grit and sheer willpower and fierceness.

She likes these qualities in Myka. The tall agent-come-producer wears them very well.

Helena's smile sweetens just in time to park her car outside the small farmhouse and go in to be greeted warmly by a long, attentive kiss. Even though Myka is the one who initiated this invested seductive act, Helena picks it up all too quickly, and refuses to let go.

Myka giggles into the kiss eventually and breaks it long enough to ask, "Aren't you hungry?"

Helena hums her agreement and moves to kiss Myka's cheek and then neck, reaching for her belt and her jeans' button and zip, while whispering, "So hungry," she nips where Myka's neck turns to her shoulder and Myka gasps, and Helena adds, her voice low with anticipation as her mouth reaches Myka's clavicle, "I'm not sure what I would like to indulge on as my entrée."

Myka hums a low chuckle. "I actually mean real---" she chokes a moan, " _real_ food," she stutters as Helena's lips and tongue wreak havoc on her skin and her senses, "like dinner," she bites her lips with a whimper when Helena tugs at her V neck, exposing the top of her breast, "I made you dinner," she reaches for Helena's face and pulls her up towards her.

"How very thoughtful," Helena smiles as their eyes meet, and Myka's lips are on hers again, and she walks them backwards – towards the living room – pulling Helena with her by only the magnetic touch of their lips and soft caress of fingertips on cheeks.

Myka deposits Helena gently on the couch and allows her – or at least so she thinks – to continue kissing her for a few minutes more. She then eases herself away from Helena's warm body, wet lips and questing fingers, and gets up to get them dinner. Helena murmurs her disappointment from the soft seat while leering at Myka's backside as it walks away from her.

It is so rare for Helena to be so _in love_ , and she's slightly taken aback by her own use of the trite concept. But she is and she's not ashamed to admit it. She is so incredibly consumed by (or with) Myka, that she allows herself all these vices – gawk unashamedly, make out long and passionately, allow Myka to assume control (or assume she assumes it) – because they are so refreshing to her and they feel so wonderful.

Then Myka disappears behind the kitchen door and Helena relaxes into a pillow and closes her eyes. There are a few seconds of silence during which all she hears are her own breaths and heartbeat, and she realises she's happy.

After a moment or two of her semi-domesticated bliss, sometimes niggles her from the back of her mind, like an alarm clock going off in the apartment across the hall; like a church bell from the next village over.

It's this mess with Claudia and Irene and this other singer.

Helena pushes out a silenced grunt and covers her eyes with her forearm. Her mind is buzzing with what she could do with Claudia for two and a half hours before she leaves to meet up with the singer and Irene, or how she could possibly try to have Claudia and this singer do something together, but she really doesn't think that Claudia has the proper amount of cynicism in her (not about making music) to help her deal with that girl's specific type of artistry and expression.

And every time she loops back to Leena's smug response, because it's just so like Leena to have this _assumption_ , this _perception_ that Helena _always_ knows what to do.

At about the fifth scenario she'd finished running and her hitting that same annoying comment Leena made, she hears Myka placing something on the coffee table before her warm hands wrap gently around Helena's ankles and slide up and under the sleeves of her trousers to hold her around her shins.

Helena purrs at the suggestion, but knows this playful act isn't leading to what she has in her mind when she hears Myka's _smirk_ through her breath.

And Helena is right.

Myka shoves Helena's legs off of the sofa so she could sit next to her, and leans forward to dish out dinner: vegetable soup and home-made crostini.

Helena pulls her legs under herself, sits up and looks at the colourful plates on the table, then at Myka, who sits at the edge of the sofa and is every bit as beautiful as ever, with those curious eyes and that relaxed smile and those slightly flushed cheeks and that long neck, those long arms and those long, nimble fingers…

And Helena knows what to do. And she knows she should have known sooner, and she knows that Leena was right.

As Myka hands her her bowl, Helena beams at her lover and reaches to tuck curls behind an ear so she could cup her cheek. This gesture, Helena feels, is loving. It's nothing like the lust of twenty minutes ago in the foyer or ten minutes ago on this very sofa.

It's pure admiration of this remarkable woman in front of her.

Myka, who grazed some of the topping of Helena's crostini with her thumb brings it to her lips to lick it off as Helena reaches for her, "What?" Myka asks as if she'd just joined the conversation.

"I've a question for you," Helena smiles and settles her meal in her lap.

"Okay…" Myka slurs dubiously, and her Secret Service mind races with thousands of possible questions Helena could have for her. Her Secret Service mind is exceptionally fast with running through these questions that span pretty much anything from what to watch tonight through to what the similarities between elephants and pianos are and everything in between, which (not surprisingly) include quite a few questions about their relationship and about work.

Without entirely knowing that she does, Myka frowns and squints ever so slightly.

Helena notices, "You've nothing to be worried about, darling," she says and bites into a crunchy piece of twice-baked bread, smothered in smoked salmon mousse.

"Okay…" Myka draws the word out for even longer and gets even more worried, because her experience shows that it is exactly when people use words like _'don't worry'_ and _'trust me'_ and _'quality'_ that she should be preparing for the very opposite about the situation or product at hand.

Helena can't help but laugh at just how much more concerned Myka looks now.

"Just ask already, will you?" Myka half-asks,half-begs, annoyance underlying her request.

"Your face is a true picture," Helena reaches for her again, but Myka backs away, punishment for Helena's torture. "Fine, then," Helena relents all too quickly, and she loves that she gives in to Myka so readily, "how would you like to do some post production with Claudia for her album?"

Myka's jaw drops, but she says nothing, then she closes her mouth and her expression turns pained. She places her own meal on the table in front of them and sits herself squarely on the sofa, which means she's not facing Helena. She then clasps her hands in front of her and lowers her head slightly.

Helena knows by now to give Myka her space to process a question and come up with an answer, but she's not ready for what falls from Myka's lips, because it's almost venomous in its quiet, monotonous delivery.

"I already told you I don't need your help."

Helena draws her eyebrows together and bites on her lip, because she wishes she could smack the back of Myka's head to shake all that idiotic pride out of her. Instead, she chooses to explain to Myka that she has matters reversed. "To the contrary, darling Myka, it is _I_ who needs _your_ help."

Myka sighs, and tries _hard_ to not roll her eyes (and fails) before she turns her head to look at Helena. "Is it?" she enunciates sarcastically.

She's about to say to Myka that there was a scheduling issue at The Warehouse, when it dawns upon her that it is likely that Leena has been meddling. Leena never, ever makes mistakes, especially not these sorts of mistakes, which aren't even becoming of those wet behind the ears. So she releases an airy laugh and opts to share her suspicion. "It would appear my studio manager had decided to…" Helena sucks in a breath, "…intervene in matters outside of her remit and double booked me tomorrow."

Myka blinks and quirks an eyebrow.

"I swear to you, Myka, this is not my doing," Helena clutches her chest and leans forward, reaching for Myka's knee with her other hand.

Myka doesn't move back this time, only looks down to Helena's hand, and back at Helena.

"And of all the projects The Warehouse has..." Myka starts, then bites on her lips and nods sharply. "Claudia?"

"I didn't know," is all Helena says, and then she thinks of the alternative for a moment, of Myka dealing with a short, young lady who has tall, old artistic principles. Between the two, Helena reckons that Claudia would be far more enjoyable an engagement for Myka. "You are welcome to facilitate the clashing party in the schedule, if you like," Helena offers, because maybe letting Myka choose how to help Helena might be a better way of handling the situation than allegedly protecting Myka through making her mind up for her.

"You mean the other artist?" Myka inquires.

Helena nods.

"Do I know them?"

"No, you don't know them," Helena answers. "Her, actually," she volunteers, "she's an up-and-comer, a diamond in the rough, who approached every studio and label on the planet, and lucky us, we're the ones she went for."

Myka nods slowly. Claudia is, without a doubt, a front runner already. Myka doesn't like working with people she's never met before. "You mean she's newly signed?" she queries the choice of information Helena chose to share.

Helena tries the soup and hums a warm approval, then nods gently. "She is newly signed, and arriving to our studio tomorrow around lunchtime for her first session as a Warehouse artist with Irene Frederick." She takes another spoonful, with another hum that turns into her counterpart's name, "Myka, this is delicious."

Myka brushes off Helena's charm with a sceptical smirk, and thinks about the quandary with which she is presented: step into Helena's shoes at Warehouse Records (shoes which size, shape and purpose she's still yet to fully grasp), or do something she knows well and does well, particularly with Claudia. This is a no brainer, really. "I don't know if you're trying to sway me towards Claud on purpose, but you know which of these I'd pick."

Helena is more than half way through her bowl of soup, not quite paying attention to Myka.

Myka takes her in, sitting lotus style on the sofa, curled over her bowl and small plate. Even though she's still in her work clothes Helena looks at home and relaxed and like she's really enjoying dinner and like she _just_ _knows_ that Myka will help her.

She smiles at the whole of this concept, of Helena being part of a _team_ , of Helena relying – almost blindly – on Myka to be there for her, of Helena looking more domesticated than she ever has. This concept means to Myka that this driven, intense, haughty professional, the very same one with whom Myka shared an agreement once that six exceptional weeks shared together do not merit forgoing aspirations and what-could-be's, has _actually_ changed enough to become a _partner_.

Even though she is completely taken in by this thought of having Helena as her partner, she feels the urge to get back at her for her 'don't worry' ploy. She straightens her face. "So you just assume I'll pick one?"

Helena looks up, just shy of finishing her soup. "How do you mean?" she looks and sounds slightly surprised.

Myka was correct. Helena blindly assumed Myka would help. "I mean," Myka straightens her back and picks up her own plate and stirs the soup in it not looking at Helena, "you just think I will do this for you?"

Helena's confused. Is Myka pushing back? Why is Myka pushing back? Claudia and she are good friends and even _she_ noticed that the last of the icy patches have long since vaporised, and they work so well together. Judging by how things went on the Vega reproduction, they _miss_ working together. Why isn't Myka…

…but then Myka starts talking and cuts into Helena's confusion.

"You think that just because it's Claudia I'll take it?" Myka steps it up a notch, and takes a spoonful of soup, pretending to mull over what she wants to tell Helena next. "I've seen how you work and I've seen enough to know that when someone is _that_ keen offload work, there's a deal to be had," she looks at Helena now, coolly, distantly.

It's Helena's jaw's turn to drop. She didn't realise Myka was _watching_ her work, and for the first time in a long time Helena feels like someone beat her at her own game. "A deal?" she asks.

"Mmmm hmmm," Myka nods with her mouth full and swallows. She looks down into her bowl absently, "tThis is incredibly short notice, and a lot to take on board very, very quickly," and takes another spoonful.

Helena chortles in disbelief. Half of her is glad, hell, _proud_ even, to have been part of Myka's growing out of her state of absolute idealism about her studio and stepping it up to make it into a business; the other half is sad because that idealism is, in part, what Helena finds so unbelievably attractive in Myka.

"What do I get," Myka puts her bowl down, "for being…" and she smirks because the shock that's painted across Helena's face means that she bought all that, hook, line and sinker, "…you know…" she leans towards Helena slowly, "…inconvenienced?" she whispers when she is a few inches away from her.

Helena is silent, lost for words, mouth gaping slightly, not knowing which of the threads her heart and her mind are throwing at her she should follow. She's annoyed and angry and happy and proud and in love, sod it, she's so in love with this woman who _still_ flummoxes her more than anyone ever could for no apparent reason. Or plenty of apparent reasons. Too many to count.

Helena loves Myka for being so baffling to her, so perplexing.

"Will you help me, then?" Helena whispers, asking in earnest, her gaze darting between Myka's eyes (that make her feel vulnerable) and Myka's lips (that make her feel turned on).

Myka's smirk grows into a fully-fledged smile and she nods, small and slow as she leans further in and kisses Helena lightly. "I'll help you," she whispers between long kisses, over and over again.

 

* * *

 

 

It's the second time Claudia is being summoned to Myka's studio by both HG and Myka since she was signed to Warehouse Records.

Myka's text lands first, and Claudia beams at the opportunity because to her this means being up until stupid o'clock playing around with things that they both know will not end up in any mix, but do it because it's fun, because they've never done it before. And it's been a long time since Claudia did that with music.

(As amazing as Warehouse Records is, and as phenomenal a producer HG Wells is, it’s always _business_. And not the monkey kind. Claudia misses the monkeys.)

But then HG's text lands.

The first thought that pops in her mind is _'what are we reproducing?'_ and the second is _'how can I get a word in deciding what we are reproducing?'_ and the third is _'what do_ _I want to reproduce?'_

It isn't really a single thought, the third thought, because it becomes this mad debate in her mind about which album she would want to strip and redress. She always wanted to re-make a Pixies album, and the only one, in her mind, that is less than perfect is Tromp Le Monde. But she doesn't like enough to invest in it.

Then she rakes her brain for other albums that she both loves _and_ thinks she could improve, and she can't come up with a single one.

She can, however, come up with dozens of albums that are absolutely perfect, but she would love, just _love_ to re-flavour with those two mad scientists of music producers she just _happens_ to know:To Bring you My Love, by PJ Harvey. Or Nevermind by Nirvana. Or Car Wheels on a Gravel Road by Lucinda Williams. Or Mark Lanegan's Bubblegum – because, oh my god, that'll be perfect for their three voices. Or The Breeders' Pod and Belly's Star and Throwing Muses' Real Ramona and Smashing Pumpkins' Gish and Hole's Live Through This and Tom Petty's Damn the Torpedoes and Lou Reed's New York and Radiohead's OK Computer and Genesis' Selling England by the Pound and Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and Kate Bush's The Kick Inside and now she's not punching above her weight _at all_.

She's almost at the turn off to Myka's gravel road when she thinks about Sheryl Crow's second album. It's probably her favourite of Crow's, and there are some songs on that album that are the very definition of Americana perfection, but some - no so much.

 _That's_ the album that Claudia wants to re-produce.

She is so pleased with having found something, that she doesn't notice a third car is already in Myka's drive until she gets out of her car. It's not Steve's car, and not Pete's, and it doesn't look like the rentals they get from their government jobs.

Okay, maybe there's someone else is joining their reproduction team. That's cool. That's perfectly okay with her if there is one more _like_ _them_ in that studio.

It sort of falls into place when she walks into the barn, where Myka is standing over by the sofas with HG and Leena, who are sitting opposite where Myka stands, and they are all looking very adult, having a polite conversation about something that isn't music and drinking hot beverages out of mugs.

Out of mugs that have Warehouse Studios’ logo on them.

"Hey!" Claudia greets the small crowd cheerily and they all greet her back, and she screws a funny face at Myka after Leena and Helena go back to their conversation about something that sounds like scheduling.

"You okay?" Myka mouths to Claudia, given the face.

Claudia walks up to Myka in the most nonchalant way she can muster, but knows isn't nonchalant at all. "What's going on here?" Claudia squeaks quietly and through smile of teeth clenched tightly together.

Myka smiles sweetly. "If you asked Helena, she'd say 'depends who you ask'," Myka puts on her best impersonation of HG.

"Don't do that," Claudia shakes her head somberly, "and I'm asking you."

Myka turns to face Claudia, "Hi, I'm Myka, and I'll be your post today," she says.

Claudia's face changes expressions like a girl changes clothes. Surprise, then confusion, then happiness, then confusion again, then excitement, then puzzlement. "How? What? How?"

"Leena," Myka nudges her head subtly towards The Warehouse's studio manager, "says it's a scheduling conflict dictated by the powers that be. But Helena," Myka nudges her head subtly towards HG who still sits opposite Leena, "thinks that Leena is meddling."

Claudia puzzlement turns to befuddlement. "What am I missing?" she whispers to Myka.

"I don't know," Myka rolls her eyes and starts walking towards to kitchen counter with Claudia in tow, "something about when Helena started working at The Warehouse she didn't have a life and Leena reading energies or something."

"Uh huh," Claud registers dumbly by the time they reach the counter in the far side of the room. There are more Warehouse mugs on counter. "So what's with the merch?"

"Extended gratitude to a partner of The Warehouse," Myka says in a semi-official voice, then sniggers.

"Who? You?" Claudia points at Myka, who nods. "They signed you as an affiliate studio?" Claudia almost squeals, loudly this time, and Myka hushes her, while fixing Claudia a cup of something. This could not be better. This is far, far better than better. This is far better than doing another reproduction, and far better than having decided that she wants to reproduce Sheryl Crow's second album. This is big. This is huge. "This is _huge_ , Myka."

"It kind of is, right?" Myka answers coyly, the way Myka does when she downplays something she's achieved because she's really not sure whether or not it's a big deal.

"Shya," Claudia exhales her overdramatised, 90s style seal of approval of this being a big, big deal. "Massive," Claudia mouths as they turn back towards the seating area to join the adults.

Leena and HG close their conversation as Claudia and Myka approach them, and polite smiles are shared all around.

Leena gets up. "It's been a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Myka," she says and extends her hand for a handshake.

"Same here," Myka smiles and shakes her hand firmly.

"You know, Irene is looking forward to meeting you too," she adds.

Myka opens and shuts her mouth, not sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. "Well, she's welcome to pop around whenever she wants," she says but immediately regrets it.

Something shifts in Leena, as if she can tell Myka's now uncomfortable. "Don't worry, she doesn't just appear out of nowhere," she darts a quick glance to HG, who tightens her lips, "I'm sure she'll give you some heads up."

They stand there for a few seconds, nodding and smiling.

"Cool," Claudia breaks the silence, "see you in there?" she asks Myka and heads into the control room.

"Thanks for arranging allthis so quickly," Myka thanks Leena again.

"Not a problem," the studio manager smiles mysteriously, "I'm looking forward to working with you."

Myka's smile stiffens as she nods an exaggerated agreement.

HG gets up to join them, picking up a ring-binder that rests on the coffee table. "Do you need me to walk you through any of the notes for the master tapes?" she hands the binder to Myka.

"Tapes…" they hear Claudia sniggering from the control room.

All three women raise a questioning eyebrow at the young girl, to whom a cassette tape is a retro design for an iPhone cover.

"It all makes perfect sense," Myka reassures Helena, as she collects the binder and presses it tightly to her, "I'm sure we'll be able to sort it out."

"We'll be off, then," HG smiles and gestures towards the door.

"See you, Myka," Leena chirps as she heads out to leave..

"I'll see you later," Helena hums quietly and gives Myka's arm a squeeze, before heading out the door and closing it behind them.

Myka remains standing still in the lobby of her studio, embracing a binder with Helena's production notes and clutching a Warehouse Records mug. For a minute the silence is just about all she can handle after the mad race of the morning, of reviewing and signing a contract with The Warehouse, of going through Claudia's new album (which is a lot like the one they produced here, in Myka’s studio), and looking through Helena's instructions.

Four hours ago Myka was _it_ for her recording studio. Now, it's a partnership.

It's the second partnership Myka finds herself in in the span of a day.

"Ground control to Major Myka," Claudia calls her from the door to the control room, "you comin'?"

And Myka stops her Secret Service mind from the diligent and artful work of embroidering the scenarios that form the meaning of a partnership with Helena and a partnership with The Warehouse, together and apart; and walks in to the control room to mix down 12 tracks she knows better than the back of her hand.

It takes them a day to mix and half a day to master, and it's a good thing it all happens so quickly, because at the end of the second day Myka gets an all too usual call from her sister, only this one is two weeks ahead of schedule and more urgent than any other.

She leaves Claudia and Helena in her studio to make the most of the time The Warehouse booked Success Records.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 16: (well executed but) bad(ly timed) romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... here's the thing. I promised myself to post this one regularly, because part of the experiment with this story was short chapters that are like popcorn, that don't take up much of anybody's time.  
> (I can't say I lived up to this one fully...)  
> I also promised myself that I won't whinge and give sad excuses as to why I didn't post.  
> So I'm not going to - I'm sorry for having failed the bunch of you who reads this as I update it. I'm so hugely appreciative of you lot coming back to read new chapters - it really makes my day.  
> So - I'm just really sorry.  
> Without any excuses.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one.  
> Have a fantastic weekend.

Myka spends the plane ride home with the playlist in her iPod that's designed to decompress the whole of her after a stay in Colorado. It involves Throwing Muses and Rammstein and Slayer and thrash metal from Norway and underground Deep House from Germany, with the hope that the noise from the headphones will drown the noise in her mind.

By the time she has to switch it off for landing, it's like a spell is broken, and for the first few minutes it takes her to get from the plane to Arrivals, the soundtrack that dominates her mind is a compilation of every back-handed compliment, every passive-aggressive insult her father had thrown at her over the past five days.

After those first few moments, as she makes her way from the terminal to her car, she starts answering those insults back with sharp, witty comments she never seems to be able to think of when she's standing in front of her father. It pisses her off that she can't answer him until she'd left his presence and put a good 2,000 miles between them.

But all that imaginary backtalk takes up so much of her energy, that she needs something else to keep her mind busy so she can concentrate on the drive home, but not too busy so she continues to have imaginary conversations with her father that will leave her utterly depleted. So she chooses Stina Nordenstam's Dynamite as accompaniment for her drive, because it's dark enough and quiet enough and true enough to simmer her down from seething and fucked off to tired and fed up.

The album ends just as she turns to the dirt track that leads to her house and her studio, and the spell is broken – again – like before, and the back of her mind drones again with the words she keeps hearing about herself and the words she never spoke in defense of her actions.

She pulls up between the house and the barn and barely has enough energy left in her to secure the hand-brake. She sighs heavily, closes her eyes, and lets her forehead thud gently against the steering wheel. "How could he still be doing this," she huffs, disappointed in herself for still letting her father get to her so.

And then her mind falls silent. Her father has no answer to that.

She opens her eyes, surprised at the sudden silence. She lifts her head to look around, thinking it's too quiet. Her lips crack with a weary smile as she thinks that she should've asked that question a long time ago if that's all it took to shut him up.

And she's home now, and she will sleep in her own bed tonight. She will sleep, she thinks, full stop.

And as quickly as the drone from before was silenced, it is replaced with a different soundtrack altogether: she thinks about the story her father told her a while back, about when she asked him to do the right thing; and she thinks about his manuscript, and the store; she thinks about her room at her parents' place, the one above the book store, the one she slept in since she was a baby; and she thinks about how she left it all behind to have _this_ house and _this_ studio.

Just outside the intense love she has for this place, she can hear her father’s voice like a scratched, repeated recording, and she loves and she hates him at the same time; and she loves her life and she hates it equally. And – just like that – like the crash of the four pianos at the end of A Day in The Life – the Colorado Dissonance rings loud and clear in Myka's ears, and it sucks every ounce of life force she has left in her, and she just knows she cannot deal with _any of it_ tonight.

She drags her bag from the seat next to her and gets out of the car. She hauls herself up the stairs to the door to the house, when she notices the door to the studio is ajar.

Myka, who feels completely drained and worn out, drops the bag with another sigh, "I'll fucking kill them," she mutters as she shuffles her feet to the studio's door, knowing that Claudia and Helena had been working when she was away. She knew they would be in the studio, that was fine, but she also made it clear to them that they shouldn't assume that just because this is the middle of nowhere, they can leave doors unlocked. Or worse – open.

She starts with the seating area, then moves to the office, then the small kitchen. They all seems to be untouched. Humans or wildlife haven't found it. She then walks into the control room and lights the studio up first, marches in and around it, checking everything is in place; that cabinets are secure; that equipment switched off. She stands in the middle of the space surveying it and she feels relieved to be home, more than anything. The thought that rolls around her head (that’s still aching from that stunning, final chord) is ‘how could Claud and Helena be so careless,’ because they know better than to leave the studio open. She knows they do.

She places her right hand on her hip backwards, so her fingers press against her lower back as she walks back to the control room and checks everything there – it's all in place. It's also all super tidy; like someone took extra care in putting everything right where it ought to be.

It feels weird, she thinks as she carefully eyes every nook and cranny in the room. It feels weird to know that someone was here. That someone else other than her was here, in her studio, when she wasn't.

She stretches her palms over the controls of the mixing desk, giving them a loving caress, examining them, and then she notices. The click track light is flashing.

Claudia and Helena left a recording loaded.

Her cheeks flush with what she thinks is anger to begin with, but then she realises it's jealousy. Yes, she knew that someone will be in her studio without her, and will be working in her studio without her and will have produced _something_ creative without her... but having the evidence of that left so carelessly for her to see... that’s just...

So she takes a deep breath and a good look at the desk: none of the channels are labelled, none of the controls are pitched, Helena left none of her trademark notes.

They left a recording on, but not the mix.

Her breath speeds up a bit because she _is_ jealous (but of whom, she’s not sure) and also because it's now become a challenge: not only piecing the recording back together, but why they would do such a thing, leaving it like this.

So she backs the track up and systematically starts pushing the sliders up, one by one.

She gets through four channels before she finds a Hammond. The next channel is a bass. No. An acoustic bass. _NO_. Stand-up bass. The next channel is some percussion, and the one after that is a female vocalist. Myka pauses and really listens, because she knows this voice.

It's Joan Osborne.

Not only that, she knows the song. It's _Ladder_.

And not only _that_ – she knows _this_ recording of it. It's the album version.

But the rest of the music doesn't sound like the album version.

She makes quick work of checking the rest of the channels, but there is only one more track – an acoustic piano that plays the lead guitar's riff from the original track.

Now she has all the channels up, she backs the track and listens to it from the beginning and balancing it.

It's moodier than the original, even though the vocals and tempo are exactly the same. It's a little bluer too. It's almost sentimental, Myka thinks, and she hears something in the piano track, something that she recognises as one of Helena's signature riffs.

Her face contorts into an expression that's half-sibling of disbelief and a second cousin to amazement. Helena considers her piano playing a dirty secret, because it’s all done by ear and Helena believes it’s a million miles away from perfect, so she never plays in front of other people. It took Myka ages to convince Helena to play in front of her 12 years ago, and they were both excessively drunk and paraphrasing David Gray, and there was no need for perfection then, but still... This track sounds just as raw. It’s rife with slips that Helena almost manages to mask as trills and flourishes. Helena won’t have played like this in front of Claudia. Claudia isn’t involved, then. This is all Helena.

The overall execution is also worthy of both disbelief and amazement: on the album, the track has a slightly disappointing fade out. In this version, Helena gives it a completely different ending: the vocals fade – because that's the recording from the album. The instruments continue the riff, but flip to a minor scale and it turns even bluer. Even more gut-wrenching. And then the instruments gradually slow and stop – percussion first, then the stand-up bass, then the piano. Until all that is left is a whisper, the hiss of the Hammond.

By the fourth time she'd listened to it, Myka is smitten. She's not sure why Helena did this, but it's a beautiful gesture, she thinks. And it's a beautiful song. It's such a beautiful version of it.

Among all the amazement Myka forgets that she was jealous, because she is getting the feeling that Helena did this for her. No one has ever done something like this for her, and Myka smiles a sweet smile and leans back in her chair to listen to this track for the fifth time.

She stops the track when it finishes and she doesn’t notice that her Secret Service mind takes over and does the investigative, detail thing it does when she stops paying attention. It looks for a reason, a motive as to why Helena would do this, and it comes up with nothing.

But she knows Helena. There has to be _something_ , she's just too tired to figure it out. She'll sleep on it tonight, and solve this puzzle tomorrow morning.

She switches off the equipment and the lights and locks the doors on her way out, then heads back to the door to her house, where she left her bag, and goes in – and up – to her bedroom where she hopes to fall into a sleeping heap within the coming handful of seconds, before the ring of the Dissonance gets any louder.

But her bedroom door is ajar.

Myka never leaves the door ajar. It's always – _always_ – open.

"What the f-" she mutters and walks towards it.

It's ajar and there is something stuck on it. A note. A Post It. She walks up to the door and picks the note up. It says 'LADDER' – in uppercase, but small letters. She quirks an eyebrow, gently ripping the sticky note from the door and pushing it open.

The next Post It she sees is on the far side of the room, on her closet door. It says 'HERE' and has an arrow pointing into the closet. So Myka opens it to find one of her plain, white, button-ups hanging from the top shelf, undone, with a note on it that reads 'THIS'.

She gets it now. It’s the lyrics to Ladder, the song Helena left for her in the studio. She hums the song and mumbles the lyrics, to look for the next note. "- _in your closet, unbuttoning all your clothes; I'll sleep in  your bed tonight_ -" she turns around to look on the bed and sure enough, there is a note on her pillow, and it reads 'YOU WEREN'T HERE, THOUGH'. "- _but I never find you home._ "

She straightens and looks around the room, because the rest of the verse isn't as simple "- _You're givin' me crooked answers, I'm crackin' your little code_ -". She taps the pad of her index finger repeatedly against the sticky strip at the back of the Post Its to aide her thinking and looks around the room. "Code…" she mutters, "language…", her eyes scan the room and land on her kindle. She reaches for it and flips the leather case open. Her smile screams self-satisfaction.

The Post It reads 'I SURELY BELIEVE I'LL CLIMB', and Myka hums the song's riff, and her smile turns into a smirk as she feels a tug in her gut, the kind she hadn't felt in a long, _long_ time.

"Welcome back, darling," Helena's voice echoes from the doorway behind her.

She spins around, holding the Post Its up. "Thank you," she walks around the bed, towards Helena, "you seem to have been keeping busy."

Helena walks towards her and meets her by corner of her bed. "A welcome home present," she dons a mysterious smile and tucks her hands in the back pockets of her own jeans.

Myka is silent for a moment, pushing away the fatigue and the headache and the Dissonance that are all speeding forward like a tornado, looks for the Post It she found on her pillow, sticking and unsticking her fingers to it, "Did you really sleep in my bed while I was gone?" she can't bring herself to look at Helena while asking her this.

"Would you like it if I did?" the black haired engineer answers with a tempting question.

"I'm not sure," Myka thinks out loud, because they never talked about this. They never agreed this. They were only ever in each other’s houses, in each other’s _beds_ when the other one was with them, and the Dissonance is getting louder and all Myka feels is confused and extremely tired. She looks up and into Helena’s eyes. "I appreciate the romance of it, but it feels _a little bit_ \---," her voice fades to a whisper and her smile turns tentative.

" _'I'm willing to take my time'_ , Myka," Helena continues with lyrics from the song and takes a step forward, closing the gap between her and the tall and weary woman.

Myka breathes out an airy, dry laugh, because she knows what lyric comes next. She holds her index finger to Helena's lips and shakes her head lightly. "Don't say it yet," she whispers because the next line is a declaration of the kind Myka can't deal with right now, with the Colorado Dissonance resonating in her head in a cacophony of overtones.

The Dissonance is really fucking with her, she knows it, because it’s getting her to be even more suspicious of Helena’s gesture, because it's _Helena_. Even though the past few weeks have been fantastic and there was all that stuff about partnership, this is still _Helena_ , and Myka doesn't know what Helena has in mind for the coming years or months or weeks or _days_ , for that matter, and whether Myka fits anywhere in those plans.

Helena's eyes darken. She's hurt by Myka's blunt rejection, even though she knows about the Dissonance and that it is likely to be the root cause of Myka’s response.

Really, she criticises her enthusiasm which led to poor judgement and consequently to unfortunate timing, she should have known better than to pick the first hours since Myka returns from Colorado to promise Myka her love – _'today and every day'_ – because right now, they are chalk and cheese: Helena's excited and excitable and she missed this glorious woman and her stunning eyes and disarming smile; and Myka's guilt ridden and battered and bruised from battling her father and sister and her own conflicted conscience.

But Myka is right there, and – heavens – Helena missed her and her smell and her touch, and it's just so easy for her to forget about Myka’s family and how they twist her into knots she then has to spend days undoing. "When shall I say it?" she asks into Myka's finger.

Myka brushes Helena's lips with the pad of her finger that was there, as if she's brushing Helena's words aside. She chases her finger with her thumb, but this is a different touch. It's charged with yearning. "I've had enough of half loves," she says after a moment's silence and what she believes is careful consideration that’s aimed to reduce the impact the Dissonance has on her thought process.

"What makes you think this is a half love?" Helena challenges.

"Because this feels a lot like twelve years ago," Myka's fingers climb to caress Helena's cheek lightly before they slip down to her shoulder and down her arm and away from Helena altogether.

"Is that a bad thing?" Helena inches forward, nudging Myka's shoulder with hers.

Myka shakes her head. "No," she feels tiredness enveloping her, making breathing considerably harder, "but that was more ' _today_ ' than ' _every day'_ ".

"And you want ' _every day_ ', do you?" Helena challenges again with a quirked eyebrow because Myka hasn't given her any indication that what she wants from her, from _them_ , is ' _every day_ '. As far as Helena knows, she is the only one among them who is so banally in love. Myka never said anything, and never behaved in a way to make Helena think she was in love as well; banally or otherwise.

She looks at Myka, who looks grey and faded with fatigue, waiting for her to respond. And until she does, Helena picks apart everything Myka said to her since she came in, and she comes to agree with the conclusion that it is highly likely that Myka wants something that's… _more_ from them.

The longer she waits, the more her eyes and heart and stomach fill with longing following the implicit request in Myka's words, and the harder it is for Helena to quell them with the equally likely possibility that Myka will reject her again, given her current frame of mind.

"Right now," Myka sighs, because she wants to answer Helena's question, but she wants to be honest. She wants Helena to know that she doesn't want a half love, that she wants a great big freakin’ wholesome love, that she wants _'every day'_ , and she wants these things with Helena.

But at this very specific moment in time, her body is ravaged by the kind of tiredness that kills and her head is full with the Colorado Dissonance: her father, closer than ever to his eternal life, berated her for being a bad daughter for not nursing him, for not following in his footsteps, for not keeping the family business and name (even though – technically – she's the one carrying it on); blamed her for running away to DC, for grieving her mother, for causing her untimely death (and even though Myka knows that these are the ramblings of a man whose mind is shattered and dispersed beyond repair – it hurts her); and her sister, who has her hands full with her own family and is struggling to deal with this man who she no longer recognises and needs Myka there with her, and doesn't understand why Myka’s still trying to pull together a business in _these_ times, and a music business, to say the least, because _everybody knows_ that the music business is down the pan, and Myka can do so much more with her life, if she just set her mind to it, if she just stopped wasting her time.

And Myka feels that she has something to prove (but she doesn't know who to), something that extends far beyond Claudia's music or Claudia's tour, or the new relationship with The Warehouse – and it's Warehouse freakin' Records (but that means nothing to her dad or to Tracy), because both of them dismissed it. Not only that, Tracy used it as _proof_ that Myka should quit going at it alone and join another record label if that's what she really wanted. And there are plenty in Colorado, because Tracy already did the research.

And just by force of thinking of it, she can hear a cough at the back of her mind, her father's cough, and she knows she's utterly drained and cannot have this conversation right now.

"Right now I just want to sleep," she completes her thought, lackluster.

Helena's eyes leave Myka's and her shoulders drop. She feels as though the wind has been knocked out of her sails and she's left adrift in the middle of an ocean, not knowing where to head next and without means of propelling her. A more apt analogy, Helena thinks, is being told to stop climbing halfway up this endless ladder, and she's not sure which way to go, not only because she doesn't know which way Myka prefers her to go, but also because Helena has been climbing this ladder for so goddamn long that she can see neither tip nor tail of it, and she doesn't know which way is which.

The voice of the harsh survivalist in her reminds her that this is another _'crooked answer'_ from Myka that leaves her confused as to what she's trying to achieve with this relationship and it goes on to question how come she's appears to be failing so spectacularly with her counterpart, especially given their connection, this inexplicable bond they share.

But maybe, she ponders, that bond doesn't live outside of making music, of producing records, of managing tours and artists. And that is such a shame, Helena decides as she casts a quick look up at Myka's eyes, because they make as good a team outside of music as they do within it.

She's about to turn away and head out the bedroom door when she feels Myka loosely clasping her hand.

"Don't go," she whispers, "please."

Helena, who's disappointed and hurt and confused, which usually reduces her harsh survivalist to being a cynic as well, wants Myka to clarify whether her staying will be for _'today'_ or _'every day'_ in her book, but Myka's posture, which is probably the most disheveled she's ever seen her lover sport, alerts her to her plight. "Okay," she breathes, and the harsh survivalist sighs deeply within her and settles in for another night that – for Helena – will be a continuation of said _'long flirtation'_.

For Myka, however, tonight isn't about flirtation at all. Tonight is about sleep. Tonight is about recharging. Tonight is about comfort.

And Myka knows without thinking that the fact she wants Helena there tonight means a lot more than she dares to admit.

Only after they've settled in bed, Myka snugly spooning Helena, does Helena speak up with the true intention behind her choice of song, behind Ladder. "You rather missed the point you know," she speaks clearly, but quietly, a part of her wishing that Myka has already fallen asleep and will not hear her statement.

"Did I?" Myka answers sleepily.

"You made me skip a line," Helena turns around to face Myka, who struggles to keep her eyes open. Helena sighs with adoration and sympathy for her beloved, and rakes her fingers through Myka's hair, pushes it back to reveal her cheek and expose her long, regal neck.

Myka's expression turns thoughtful, a tiny crease appears between her eyebrows, and Helena smiles because she knows Myka is trawling through the song's lyrics.

"Did I?!" Myka opens her eyes, and they are full of intent and they are a deep forest green and it nearly takes Helena's breath away.

Helena nods silently, giving Myka a few seconds to come up with the answer herself. But when she doesn't, Helena speaks, even quieter than before. " _'I'm gonna love you anyway'_ , _"_ she bites the inside of her cheek as soon as she finishes whispering, because _that_ was the point of Ladder; but spoken out like this, in the dark and out of context, it feels much scarier to Helena. She chose this song to articulate – albeit somewhat playfully – the depth of her affection to Myka, her longstanding belief in it. But this lyric on its own, without its mates to keep it company, leaves her vulnerable in front of Myka, in her bed; that's certainly a new sensation for Helena.

Myka's face softens in an instant, and she thinks to herself that she's the biggest asshole on the face of the planet. "I did, didn't I?" she whispers.

Helena nods silently again.

Myka knew. The instant Helena said it – she knew. She knew _that_ was the line she made Helena skip, because this is the declaration she knew she couldn't handle tonight.

She still can't. Myka can't bring herself to move or say or do anything other than think about where everything is in her life right now; work, and art, and Helena, and her dad, and her sister and her friends.

Only now Helena said _that_ to her and she has to say or do _something_.

Myka looks into Helena's dark, warm eyes, and she is lost in them, helpless when Helena looks like that – completely and utterly void of her usual armour of confidence; and Myka's mouth dries and her throat closes up and she has to swallow hard and clear her throat before she speaks. "I'm really sorry I'm such an ass, Helena," and when she does, it comes out hoarse and broken, a bit like her state of mind. "I want _us_. And I want... I... just..." she struggles to find words that will explain how she feels because her mind is a mess, and Helena closes her eyes, and Myka's heart breaks because she can feel Helena's heart breaking, "I can't hold a thought together right now," she admits.

So Helena nods silently once more, and burrows herself into the mattress and pillows and sleep.

Myka is so very tired but wide awake, her mind churning information at unfathomable speeds, even though there is nothing her aching muscles want more right now than for her to drift off to sleep.

But she can't tear her gaze away from the brave and beautiful woman she has in her bed; can't stop thinking about how much it must have taken Helena to do this, to record the song, to place the Post Its, to tell Myka that she loves her _anyway_ , only to have Myka stomp on the poetry of it with the voice of her emotionally crippled father.

Her body gives in in the end, and her eyes fall shut. "I love you too, Helena," she whispers – eventually – just before sleep descends.

 

* * *

 

 

Helena wakes up in an empty bed. Again.

Only this time it's Myka's bed. She sighs heavily, acknowledging that the calm she woke up to is tainted with a hint of last night’s disappointment. This time, she consoles herself, she doesn't need to hunt for Myka. She's positive that if she stuck around long enough, Myka will eventually turn up; it being her house and all.

She turns to lay on her back and looks out the window from the bed. There's a big, bright blue sky outside, fitting for the last days of summer. She thinks about the previous night. She thinks about whether Myka and her are destined to only be musical collaborators, and whether that would satisfy her; whether she could contain whatever it is that Myka releases in her strictly within work territory – and nothing else.

She then contemplates how long she is willing to hang around for, waiting for Myka to return. In the meantime, she stares out the window, inhales in the scent of harvest and listens to birds and grasshoppers lazily improvising an a-synchronous duet in the fields around the house.

Listening to anything long enough gives Helena ideas, and she spends an indeterminable amount of time designing the mic setup to capture these sounds in a way that would maximize their manipulable potential (the artiste, second cousin of Sia+GaGa would appreciate this as a beat).

When she’s done designing, she pushes herself up and dangles her feet off of the bed with newly found distracted motivation in the form of a musical exploit. When her feet touch a spot of wooden floor that the sun had been warming, she gets a rush of a homely feeling, and it hits her, suddenly and viscerally and out of the blue of the skies out the window –

musical collaborators is not enough. Strictly work is not enough. She is decidedly aware now that she loves Myka, and there is nothing playful about this admission, she loves her and she wants to know whether or not Myka loves her back, so she’ll go looking for Myka seeing as Myka hasn’t come back yet.

She gets off the bed and heads towards the closet, where she left her small overnight bag and her clothes from last night. There is an iPod on it with a Post It stuck to its back. Myka's rounded handwriting states "A Quiet Line", and a small encircled triangle (a hand-drawn play icon) below it.

Helena rummages in her bag for her headphones and plugs them in. If Myka is playing the same game there will be other Post Its to follow, so Helena turns around to scan the room and only when she notices the first Post It, neatly placed to the left of the doorway, she presses play. It reads:

_'What can I say, did I steal you away from a life that you thought you would lead?'_

Helena smiles. The next note is on the wall opposite the doorway, coaxing her out of the bedroom:

_'All days can be strange, but then August is dangerous - handing your heart to the heat.'_

The lyrics on the notes are those from the first verse of the song she is listening to. It's a beautiful waltz, simple, folky. A sweet voiced girl is singing the lead, and a lower timbre is building a comforting harmony throughout.

She turns to the right, towards the staircase, and sure enough, there is a note on the handrail at the top of the landing.

_'A quiet line'_

The next note is halfway down the stairs, under a portrait of Myka and her sister as young girls, a summer holiday photo:

_'I hope you can love me a long time'_

Helena's smile softens, it becomes a small smile that hides a tear, because – this song – these lyrics – feel much closer to beyond-musical-collaborators than what Myka felt like last night. She looks further down the staircase, and there is another note on the banister at the bottom of the stairs:

_'I hope you can see me through'_

And another note tacked to the wall opposite, leading her into a hallway that leads to the kitchen:

_'I find the light in your eyes to be bright'_

The next note is on a mirror further down the hallway:

_'Place me here, in this minute of "let's see"._

_I hope you can love who I might be.'_

Helena raises her eyes to catch her reflection in the mirror, and she devises a friendly insult for Myka, because she is making Helena ask herself this difficult question, whether she could promise Myka to love who she might be; or vice versa. It's a difficult question whichever way she looks at it because even though they feel like they match so well now, Helena is convinced that there is still so much that will happen soon, that will change her, that will change Myka.

The next note draws her attention downwards, just below the mirror, there is a bowl where Myka keeps keys and unopened mail. In it, is another note, tacked to a loose key:

_'I hope that the summer will last.'_

Helena removes the note from the key and palms it. She walks towards the kitchen, where the last Post It waits for her, on the kitchen door that propped open. She peels it off diligently, and looks at Myka, who is in the kitchen, sitting by the small table under the window, and she's looking back at her. She looks at the note, it repeats the chorus, just as the chorus comes on again, at the end of the song:

_'A quiet line_

_I hope you can love me a long time_

_I hope you can see me through_

_I find the light in your eyes to be bright.'_

Helena takes her headphones out and rolls them around the iPod. She walks towards the table and sits opposite Myka, who went through the trouble of getting Helena's favourite brand of tea and some Jaffa Cakes.

She looks up at Myka, leaning on her elbows, with her arms wrapped around her midriff, wearing an indiscernible expression.

"One of yours?" Helena holds up the iPod before placing it on the table, next to a plate with the Jaffa cakes.

"I wish," Myka huffs. "Tea?"

Helena nods, and she and Myka reach for the kettle that's on the table at the same time. Their fingers graze, and Myka smiles a shy smile that falls from her lips too quickly.

Helena smiles in return and picks up the kettle, fills her mug up with water and busies herself with opening the box of tea, picking out a single teabag and plopping it inside the mug of hot water. "And this?" she holds up the key she had hidden in the palm of her hand, as if she were a magician conjuring a quarter from behind somebody's ear.

"It's a key," Myka says quietly and looks down.

Helena raises both her eyebrows and searches for Myka's eyes, "Your key?"

She nods. "It's the house key," she speaks a little louder now. "You already have the keys to the studio, so I thought you should..." she trails off.

"Myka..." Helena sighs in confusion, because Myka is making a much bigger statement than she'd hoped for. This is two steps ahead of an admission of reciprocity, it's an invitation for sharing something that's much more than a bed, or so she thinks. Or maybe it isn't. Helena thinks she should make sure, but gently. "Uhm..." she starts, "I was wondering if I were, as you say, flattering myself to think that you were inviting me..." it is Helena's turn to trail off, because Myka's eyes come up to meet hers and there is a seriousness in them that renders Helena speechless.

"I don't want to give you crooked answers anymore, I don't want you to crack my codes," Myka goes back to Helena's choice of song from the previous night. "You don't have to answer straight away, and you don't have to do anything about it straight away..." she prepares herself for rejection, cushions an unavoidable blow, "...or at all... but I would like it if you moved here," she says, "with me." She picks up a Jaffa cake and rolls it along the top of her finger before putting it in front of her. "I would _love_ it, actually," she looks back at Helena, who's still holding the key.

Silence.

Myka's mind is more clam than it had been in years, and it's probably the first time since she moved out here that the Dissonance was silenced so quickly. Maybe it's the fact she'd finally made a statement – a bold statement – about what _she_ wants, and complications be damned, and plans be damned, and her father be damned, and even art and music and livelihood can be damned right now. She's quite sure she can figure those out on her own, but she can't figure her and Helena out on her own. That's something they need to do together.

As she explains this to herself she realises that asking Helena to move in may be considered too soon by some, but she doesn't care about what Pete or Tracy will say. Helena and her have always seemed to have a lot of ground to cover, and they could cover it more quickly if they spent more time together. This is a sure way of spending more time together.

Helena, on the other hand, has no thoughts at all. It isn't as if she chooses to switch off her brain's ability to figure out, to undo and redo and engineer forward and in reverse; it isn't doing any of it because it doesn't have to. She knows the answer she wants to give Myka.

True, she thinks, it's impulsive and possibly silly and very romantic and she isn't any of these things. But being with Myka, in her studio, in her house, makes her feel like she found where she belongs. And for the wanderer that she's always been, it's a strange and wonderful feeling.

She places the key gently on the table top, next to her brewing tea and stands up. Myka follows her with a questioning gaze as she walks around the table and stands next to Myka. She extends an upturned palm to the sitting woman, who tentatively reaches for it. Helena pulls her up, places her hands at her hips, and inches into her, as close as she could get.

Helena then pushes herself up on her toes so their eyes are level and leans her forehead against Myka's, until their noses brush against each other. "I would love that too," she whispers.

Myka wraps her arms around Helena's waist, pulling her up just a little bit more and Helena's lips push into her own for a sweet, lasting touch. She pulls away, touching her tongue to her upper lip, tasting the kiss. "I want us to make it work," she says.

"I'd like that as well," Helena breathes out, and leans in for another kiss, just as sweet as the one before.

Myka breaks the kiss again. "I just want to clarify some stuff with you before you..." she tries her hardest to stick to what she planned to say to Helena, what she planned to achieve with this offer: to clear the slate with her, once and for all. Agree to let bygones be bygones and start fresh.

But Helena is not letting her stick to any form of preconceived plan. "How can you even think right now?" she whispers into Myka's lips before capturing them wetly between her teeth and tongue.

Myka gasps and whimpers into this kiss as Helena sets her alight. Best laid plans, or something, Myka's mind commentates dutifully, and her body just reacts to Helena's challenge: she bends down and pulls Helena up from behind her knees so Helena's legs are wrapped around her waist.

Helena lets out a short yelp as she's whisked up, a yelp that turns into a gasp as gravity thrusts her down into Myka in the most delicious way. She laces her hands at the back of Myka's neck and pulls her in for a kiss, a real, hard, passionate kiss and it's only once Myka walks them into the hallway that she realises they're moving.

Myka is a little impressed with herself, that she can walk – like that – without looking at where she's going, with Helena wrapped around her, with Helena's lips wrapped around hers, with her lips wrapped around Helena's, without crashing into anything.

Helena feels that Myka isn't focusing on what's clearly important, so she breaks the kiss abruptly and looks down onto her lover. Myka looks a little dazed, a little flustered, a little flushed, a little self-satisfied and more than a little turned on. Helena wants to poke a jab at Myka's odd knack for parallel thinking, banter about her unconscious need to analyse everything, but Myka opens her eyes and stops walking, and looks into Helena's eyes, and her lips curve into a smile and she whispers "' _I find the light in your eyes to be bright'_ ".

"No one has ever said that to me," Helena says and traces Myka's brow with the pads of her fingers.

Myka's smile broadens. "Probably because, technically, your eyes are even darker now than they usually are," she says and blinks lazily, just before she starts walking them again towards the living room.

"Yet you find them bright," Helena questions the poetry in the lyric.

Myka nods. "There's light in you, Helena," her gaze turns dreamy and her smile fades, "it's light, like luminescence, but it's also light, like ease," she explains as she eases Helena down onto the sofa in the living room and stretches next to her. "And when we are like this," she gestures at their closeness with a nudge of her head, "that light is _so_ bright," she smiles again.

Helena has no answer that doesn't sound unbelievably trite. She decides to say nothing for fear of spoiling the moment, a moment she would much rather build on. So instead, she finds the hem of Myka's shirt and pushes her fingers up Myka's back, feeling the curve of her spine up to her shoulder blades and pulls Myka down to her for a long kiss that melts into a long morning in lieu of the night before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and a big ol' shout out to kellsbells for her help. Thank you!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 17: introducing: Bering & Wells.

If Pete were a soft-spoken gentleman he would have been utterly delighted when he receives an email from someone called Leena, Studio Manager at Warehouse Records, on behalf of Claudia Donovan, inviting him to join her and her team at Warehouse Studios to discuss plans of the upcoming release and tour of her second album.

But Pete isn't a soft-spoken gentleman (not unless he absolutely has to) so he was freakin' excited, and so much so, that half the DC secret service field office hears just how freakin' excited he is the second he finishes reading the first sentence of that email.

And then they hear just how freakin’ excited he is again, when he finishes reading the second paragraph, outlining the schedule for recording, balancing and mastering said second album in both Warehouse Studios and Success Records facilities, and the indicative dates and locations for said promotional tour.

The other half of the DC field office heard how freakin' excited he was over lunch, or over the hour that follows lunch, because that's all he can talk about.

That afternoon he arranges for time off from the service – proper time off, the kind where he can't be contactable or on call or anything – and buys his plane tickets to leave the next morning. In all the excitement he forgets to call Myka to see if she has room for him at hers, so it's only late that evening that he fumbles with his phone while packing his holiday bag messily, shoving in jeans and jerseys and his college shirts that he knows piss Myka off, but that's part of their thing.

The phone's ringing a bit longer than usual, so he sandwiches his cell between his shoulder and ear, to free up his hand to continue packing.

When someone picks up, he doesn't hear who answers. "Mykes!" he's quick to assume.

"Pete?" he hears a muffled voice on the other end of the call.

He stops throwing the contents of his middle drawer into a medium sized duffle bag for a moment and adjusts the phone against his ear while muttering something about reception. "Myka?"

"No, it's Claudia."

"Claud!" he yelps, then hoots in celebration, "Second album! How freakin' amazing is _that_? And another tour! This is awesome! Isn't it awesome?" he chatters excitedly, before realising, "Wait, did I cheek-dial you by mistake? I thought I called Myka," he says while straightening, bringing the phone in front of him to see what the screen says. It says 'Myka'.

"No, no, you dialed Myka," Claud states confidently, "I intercepted your call."

Pete laughs, but stops suddenly when he remembers that Claudia, music aside, actually has the technical knowhow to physically (and even virtually) intercept calls, in the very real sense of the word.

Claudia, who picks up that this silence is a little awkward, explains: "You're calling to ask Myka if you could stay at hers, and you shouldn't be calling her," Claudia whispers and Pete notes the urgent sincerity of her request.

"Why?" his guard for Myka goes up again, "Why shouldn't I -" he starts thenrealises suddenly, "is this because of HG?"

"No, you dirty dog," Claudia chuckles, "it's because of me. You are my guest. You're a guest of The Warehouse."

Pete, who - once more - thinks that he should have been paying more attention when Claudia or Myka tell him stuff about The Warehouse and about the music industry and about music history and - holy crap on a Golden Graham - he's getting bored listening to himself think about this, he knows that he _should_ know that being a guest of The Warehouse means _something_. But because he bores himself stiff thinking about this stuff, he just has to ask. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm inviting you to join the entourage, Petester Lattimeister," Claudia whispers, "and The Warehouse has to approve."

Pete chuckles, because from the way Claudia says it, it sounds like the building has to approve of him, or something. "Okay," he may be, sorta, kinda willing to accept that premise, "so why can't I stay at Myka's?"

"Because I don't want your relationship with Myka to taint The Warehouse's opinion of you," she answers.

Pete clears his throat. The _may be_ , _kinda_ and _sorta_ are just not working for him right now, even though he is governed by his real, physical vibes about criminals and people and situations. Apparently, the idea that a building might be scrutinising him crosses some sort of line. "Am I missing something?"

"Let's just say," Claudia takes a deep breath, "that I feel like I owe you a debt of gratitude, that's like, the size of the borrowing of a third world country, and this might be a way for me to pay back," she utters far too quickly. She's uncomfortable, Pete feels it in his vibe-receiving gut, "is that cool?"

Pete recalls the Claudia Donovan he met for the first time in Best in the West a little over two years ago, who turned whiter than Casper coming out of a bucket of bleach the second Myka answered his call; and then he recalls the Claudia Donovan on the tour of her first EP, those long afternoons and evenings with Myka and Steve, passing flyers and selling CDs and moving kit from back doors of clubs to Myka's car; and how she'd fall asleep mid-sentence on the drive home.

He then thinks about the Claudia Donovan who sat in front of him and explained to him why the move to Warehouse Records was a good move, and then about the Claudia Donovan he saw on stage four months ago on the super-secret press tour for her first album.

This evolution of Claudia feels to him like his little sister is growing up and doing so well and she's not his little sister anymore. She's this amazing, well rounded person whose fear faded into confidence and ferocity blossomed into humility.

And yes, he can admit to himself (as he should to Claudia when he sees her tomorrow), that he had something to do with it.

"It's cool," he breathes out with an air of pride. "Do I need to bring something, like a suit?"

"No, man," Claudia answers. "The Warehouse takes you as you are."

"Awesome," Pete nods, small and steady, and thinks whether he should ask, and decides that he should. "Claud?"

"Yeah?"

"When you said 'intercept'…?"

She laughs, because she can hear Pete's nerves and curiosity. "I just picked her phone up."

"Okay," he's not 100% sure, but he's more curious than he is suspicious, "See ya tomorrow."

When he hangs up the call Pete's gut is oddly at peace with all of this, even the slight chance that Claudia is illegally intercepting calls. His gut hasn't been this calm in a long time, probably since he had time off to help Myka build her studio.

He finishes packing and can barely find something to keep him occupied enough until it's time to go to the airport. Thank god for Call of Duty.

 

* * *

 

When Pete gets off the plane he is greeted by a massive Asian dude in an expensive, dark, Italian suit and a sign that says "Lattimer". The dude escorts him to the back of a town car, the same kind of car Pete escorts people to, and for a split second Pete feels like he is one of the VIPs he secures.

The Asian dude drops him off by a massive building that looks like an old factory or a warehouse. From the entrance, he's shown up to the third floor by a mysterious, beautiful black girl with the most amazing curly hair, where he's asked to wait in a darkened seating area, on plump leather sofas.

While waiting Pete looks at the tall walls around him. They are covered in photos of every rock band he has ever listened to (and a few he hasn’t), all of them in session. The photos were all taken in the same place, he could tell by the windows in the background, the size and height of which match the ones this very building has.

And even though Pete isn't as intensely in love with music the way Myka or Claudia are, Pete, too was once a teenager and there was a decade, if not two, in Pete's life when rock music articulated his emotions better than he ever could.

Then his gut twinges with a new kind of vibe, like someone is tapping into his vibe-sensors, and he feels the history of this factory, which _isn't_ a factory but _is_ , sort of. It washes over him like a tidal wave; every single artist and every single groupie and every single muse and every single line of coke or bud of MJ that passed through here - Pete feels them all.

And maybe this is what Claudia meant when she talked about The Warehouse's approval.

"Pete," the beautiful black girl is back and Pete inhales deeply, as if he has woken from a dream, "I'm Leena. Are you ready to go to the studio or do you want to freshen up first?"

"Uh," he stammers because he swears he can feel her vibes too, and she's calm, so calm, and so _so_ beautiful. "I'm good," he smiles dopily and gets up. "Can I leave my stuff here?"

Leena smiles broadly, before leading the way to the studio, "I'll have it taken to your suite."

She walks him down a dark corridor, it's a warm kind of darkness, not a scary kind, and he can hear faint sounds of music from further down the hall, then he recognises the muffled sound of Claudia's voice and he feels so _freakin'_ happy, and so _freakin'_ proud and he knows that this is the right place for her.

Leena opens a heavy door and the music is no longer muffled, it's loud and full-on and rich and thick like a Boston Clam Chowder. Pete looks at Leena and smiles at her as he walks in, enters the control room of Warehouse Studios.

"Hmmm," Leena's brow creases.

"What is it?" Mrs. Frederic's voice pierces through the music, from behind where Leena is standing.

"He's in tune," she turns to meet the inquisitive eyes of The Warehouse's keeper, "very rare."

Mrs. Frederic humphs what is probably her notion of laughter, and follows Pete into the control room, and Leena realises that Mrs. Frederic knows something that she doesn't, and it's at these moments that Leena understands what annoys HG so much when she, herself, produces an identical mannerism.

Leena is the last to walk into the control room that is jam packed full of all the right people for this moment which, for Leena, isn't a simplistic statement based on some gut feel or hidden agenda. It's based on what she sees and feels in the room, everybody's practically shimmering and excited and anticipatory and harmonious. It's beautiful to watch and even more amazing to feel.

Pete is sitting on the small sofa at the back of the control room and he is in awe of the whole thing. His eyes dart between the people in the studio, behind the thick glass, and the people in the control room who masterfully manipulate the music those other people create like it were matter. At some point his gaze fixes on HG, because – Leena is guessing Pete is feeling it too – she's _in the zone_.

HG is not quite sitting in her chair. She is hovering about an inch above it (heaven knows what state her quads are in for being able to sustain this pose) because she can reach more of the desk more quickly this way. On top of the sea of sliders and knobs and buttons (for the 64 standard channels the desk controls), she also has four thingies (pads) she plays with that make Claudia's emotion ring clearer (as she live-samples and adds effects).

Pete doesn't know this, but the reason the energy is particularly high with this song right now is because this song is going to be the first single from the second album and it was Claudia's suggestion to have a bunch of versions released at the same time on different media to generate some interest and engage with her fan base (small as it may be right now, and growing at a staggeringly fast pace).

So to make that plan happen, HG does what HG Wells does best, and that's make music come alive, make it emotional and challenging and different, so it captures what the artist conveys and amplifies it just enough to make it _awesome_.

And it's clear to Pete who's watching HG, and to Leena who's watching him watching her (as it is clear to Mrs. Frederic, who is standing in the far corner of the room, clutching her handbag and wearing a knowing smile as she watches Claudia in the studio) that Claudia's idea for her single was _perfect_ and this take is the bee's knees of takes, and it's most certainly going to be a keeper.

It takes Pete nearly two whole minutes to find Myka and when he does it's like he stumbles across a familiar face in the crowd that's inside the studio, like he just found Waldo.

Myka is in the studio, between a piano and small stack of keyboards, and for a moment Pete swears that she has more than two hands with the speed she moves between the five keyboards she sits between.

Myka is in the zone too. She has a daft smile slapped across her face and she bounces slightly with the beat (some of which she's generating through one of her keyboards), and occasionally she gets completely sucked in and harmonises to Claudia's lead vocals.

Claudia is so far in the zone they'll probably need Tom Hanks to head a platoon of Marines to go out and find her. Every word she sings  she means it. Every note she plays  comes straight from her heart and her gut and her soul.

Pete doesn't know how this happens, but he feels it too.

At a point he recognises is probably towards the end of the song because the music is rising and the energy is intense, Claudia half turns to face Myka and they sing together (Pete's never heard Myka sing like this) and for the next 15 seconds it feels like every single fracking thing is right with the whole goddamn world.

So Pete looks at Leena, who looks back at him, and they both smile with the knowledge that everything _is_.

The band in the studio finishes the take and HG congratulates them in her very British way on a _glorious_ effort. She then turns around to see who's in her studio and she's beaming, her smile is as bright as sunshine and she nods her appreciation to Mrs. Frederic first, then to Leena, then she winks at Pete.

In the studio, the musicians hug and laugh and talk over each other, and sing and hum phrases from the song they just played.

Then Myka calls them to quick order and with the brightest smile Pete has ever seen _anyone_ smile _ever_ , she talks them through the take and makes detailed notes of their feedback, of what did and didn't work. He doesn't understand much of what they are saying (except words like "the", and "in" or "after", because the rest of it is gobbledigook. Even when they use words that are normal words in English like "rest" and "emphasis" and "build-up", it's not like he could join the conversation, because they might as well be having a conversation in Finnish and drop words in English to confuse whoever's listening).

And Pete is surprised and in awe because Myka looks like she's in her element and happy – _so_ happy – in a way he's never seen her happy before. He thought she was in her element when they were working together in DC, solving puzzles and saving the day (or, rather, the President), but he knows now that _these_ are the puzzles that Myka was made to solve. _These_ are the days she was born to save. And it makes him happy to know that she's so happy, but also a little bit sad, because a part of him, somewhere, was still hoping that Myka would join the service again one day, and they could work together like they used to; because he does miss her.

When she finishes with the band they do some kind of power hug thing that Claudia initiates and Myka can't get out of quickly enough. Myka then turns around to look at HG (and Pete swears something happens to the air when eye contact is made) and asks her if she missed anything.

HG answers with a set of questions that Myka answers, which – again – feel like a Finnish/English hybrid of a conversation, only this one is different, because sentences are half spoken. It's like they complete each other's thoughts, or something.

Pete gives Leena a questioning gaze, but Leena is exchanging that mysterious smile of hers with the intimidating black lady on the other side of the room who he didn't even realise was there.

When HG gets up and heads into the studio to help the band pack up, Leena's smile broadens and she states, "They make a pretty good team, don't they?"

So Pete looks at the lady, who nods a single, soft nod of affirmation; then back at Leena, whose smile is almost as big and bright as HG's from a moment ago.

Pete acknowledges that he witnessed the official formation of the new creative force. He isn't quite aware of the magnitude of the moment, which is a reboot of a similar moment that happened 45 years ago in this very building with James MacPherson behind the desk and Artie Nielsen in the studio, jamming with a group of musicians that would become, in a matter of a few years, the line-up that made Fleetwood Mac famous.

"Bering and Wells," he mumbles.

"I beg your pardon?" asks the scary lady.

"Uh, nothing," Pete clears his throat and squeaks on the leather sofa as he shifts, "I was just saying..." he tries to recall _what_ he just said and _why_ , "I mean, they're a team, right? And a team needs a name," he looks at Leena with an innocent look.

She smiles at him reassuringly.

"Why not Wells and Bering?" the lady quizzes him.

"Could be," he shrugs and looks at her, but then looks down at the coffee table and adds quietly, "but I think Bering and Wells sounds better..."

He doesn't see Mrs. Frederic look at Leena and nod her slow, single affirmation; and Leena nodding back; because unlike Pete, Mrs. Frederic and Leena are very aware of the magnitude of the moment.

Warehouse Studios has a new power couple.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 18: snapshots of success. 
> 
> (With extra thanks to Kellsbells)

It’s Tuesday night and Claudia has just collapsed on a chair in the tiny green room she has at the back of The Crocodile in Seattle.

This is the fifth Tuesday on her second album tour, only the fifth Tuesday, meaning they’ve only been on the road for four and a half weeks. Claudia has grown to really like Tuesday night shows, because Wednesdays are her day off, so there is always a different energy to the last show before she gets a break from the stage.

She never thought she would need (let alone want) a day off from music, but five weeks into her first this-is-really-honest-to-god-hard-work tour, she’s ecstatic that Myka insisted she has at least one day off every week. Or she would be ecstatic, if she weren’t so unbelievably tired.

In the blurry haze of semi-exhaustion she’s in now, she can’t wait to collapse on a bed in a motel room, a bed that doesn’t move with the bus, and she can sleep late and because there is nothing scheduled for tomorrow morning.

Just thinking about a stationary bed in a well ventilated room that’s all hers, that will be devoid of the noises her bandmates make when they sleep knocks her into a quasi-comatose condition, and her eyes fall shut and her head falls back.

A light knock on the door disturbs the nap she stumbled into.

“Yeah”, she breathes out heavily without moving a single muscle, and Myka slinks in.

“Hey,” she whispers as she takes in the wrung out rag of a human, and squats down next to the chair Claudia is collapsed in, placing a reassuring palm on her knee. “Good show tonight.”

“Huh,” Claudia breathes out again, still immobile.

“What do you need?” Myka asks matter-of-factly.

“Sleep,” The young artist harrumphs without moving.

Myka chuckles. “There’ll be sleep tonight,” she comforts her friend. “I wanted to tell you –“

Myka’s statement is cut off by a light knock on the door.

“Yeah,” Claudia utters again from her sagged state.

Todd, the band’s bassist, peers his head through the door.

“Hey, Claud,” his voice is low and soothing, “I wanted to check if you ---“ he stops when he clocks Myka’s presence, and he coughs to clear his throat, “--- uh… needed anything,” he finishes his sentence in his usual, not-quite-so-low voice.

“Thanks, man,” Claudia responds wearily with her eyes still closed, “I just need some sleep.”

“Okay,” he whispers and closes the door quietly behind him.

Myka tries to gauge from Claudia whether she is aware that Todd is quite probably interested in her, (the romantic kind of interest rather than just the general kind of interest), and whether she had done or wants to do something about it, but Claudia is just about asleep.

Myka needs to let Claudia know that Helena is bringing a special guest with her tomorrow when she arrives in the morning, and Myka is trying to give Claud as much time with that special guest, so she may actually need to wake up (which she knows Claudia isn’t really planning on doing, not until gone lunchtime, anyway) and then miss their weekly troubleshooting session with Helena before they take the show up to Vancouver.

Before the has a chance to, though, there is yet another light knock on the door.

This once jerks Claudia into consciousness with a start, “For the love of Pete,” she mutters as she collects her limbs and straightens her head, squints with the burden of the light in the room, “Yes!” she calls.

The door opens a crack again with another male suitor who seeks to get Claudia whatever it was she needed. This time it’s Douglas Fargo, a tech wizard that Helena brought on board so he could take over from Myka, so that Myka could go back to working in her studio with a new band Leena and Helena are considering signing (and also give Myka the opportunity to do more recording and producing before she is dragged deeper into the pits of a career as a Tour Manager).

Claudia groans as she pushes herself off of the chair to politely turn Fargo away from the door, as she shuts it gently behind him. She walks back to her chair and bends down to pick up her guitar case and whimpers at the weight of it.

Myka smiles and rushes towards her to collect the instrument.

“Thank you,” Claudia border-line-whines and lets her head drop on Myka’s arm. “You promised me sleep. Can I have my sleep now?”

“Come on,” Myka drags her artist with her guitar out through the stage door and into the minivan that will drive them to the motel on the outskirts of Seattle for a night of static sleep. “Steve is coming tomorrow morning,” she says when the door to the van closes and the driver starts the engine.

“Is he?” Claudia manages to sound sort of pleasantly surprised from her sleepy cloud.

“Can you give me notes for the troubleshoot meet with Helena tomorrow so you can spend time with him?” Myka asks, even though she knows it’s pointless. Claudia will say there’s nothing wrong and fall asleep because the van started moving.

“Sure,” Claudia mutters, “but there’s nothing wro---“ the end of her sentence comes out as a long, drawn out breath, because Claudia Donovan is fast asleep, even though the bed she occupies is moving (and technically is just a back seat of a van and Myka’s shoulder) and the space isn’t ventilated at all.

 

* * *

 

Myka wakes up in her static bed by a weight that dips the bed behind her, and then an arm that slings around her midriff. She hums-come-groans, because this could be any number of people.

Well. Not _any_ number. Two, specifically.

It could be Helena and it could be Claudia. They are the only two people who are allowed in her room, who are allowed in her bed. The only two people she allows to be _this_ close to her.

If she checked the time on her phone she’d be able to extrapolate who it is that’s sort of spooning her, but that would mean opening her eyes and moving her arm, and she really _really_ can’t bring herself to do any of those things because after depositing Claudia in her room last night, Fargo and Todd got into an idiotic argument about sound effects and proper balancing of a live show (but, really, is about who of them is smarter and more talented and more capable to go after Claudia) which turned out to be too loud and rowdy for the motel they are staying in, and settling the band down every night is part of a Tour Manager’s job.

This whole Todd/Fargo rivalry thing has got to resolve itself, Myka’s mind finds it to point out, and Myka hopes that the coming week (when she will be leaving them for the first time for a whole week) will help do just that.

Nothing like a shove into the deepest end to get folks to get on with their swimming, she thinks to herself just before her train of thought is abruptly interrupted by a gentle kiss below her jawline; a gentle kiss that turns to a soft nip that turns a little harder and Myka has no choice but to turn over and open her eyes.

“You’re early,” she murmurs sleepily into Helena’s warm lips.

Helena’s brown eyes glow warmly down at a still sleeping Myka. “It is not as early as you’d like to think,” she responds and takes Myka’s lip between her teeth.

“What do you mean?” Myka gasps with a small laugh.

“It’s nearly 10, darling,” Helena resumes her assault on Myka’s neck, now that more of it is accessible to her.

“It’s what?!” Myka jumps up, and Helena is just about fast enough to get out of her way in time. “Oh no no no no no…” she shoots out from the bed, and hurriedly gets out of her pyjamas and into her jeans and t-shirt, brushes her teeth and pushes her hair into a ponytail, because there was supposed to be a staff meeting a half hour ago, and she was supposed to do a formal hand over with Fargo, and fuckfuckfuck she never _ever_ overslept in her whole life – ever – and now is a bad – _bad_ – time to start.

Helena, who is rather enjoying Myka’s frantic rush, who is finding it oddly stimulating in a way that will not make Myka leave this room for _at least_ another hour (if not more, if Helena has things her way), can’t seem to find the time to tell Myka that the team meeting was handled, and that Fargo is prepped, and that it was Claudia’s idea to disable Myka’s alarm, because she knows that Myka’s more tired than Claudia by a factor of at least 12, and she promised Helena she would keep an eye on Myka so she doesn’t burn out.

So Helena makes herself comfortable on Myka’s bed, knocks her boots off of her feet and reaches for the TV remote.

Myka storms back in as quickly as she stormed out and Helena barely manages to catch up on the news headlines in Seattle.

Myka slams the motel room door behind her, which doesn’t faze Helena, who appears to be ready to stay in bed for the day. So Myka is a bit conflicted – she’s angry that Helena let her get so stressed only to rush out for no apparent reason; but she’s also ready to jump Helena (literally and figuratively) because she hasn’t seen her in a week and, damn it, she’s missed her so much.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she winds up sighing after a moment of watching Helena’s utter relaxation in front of the TV, as if they are home and it’s a Sunday morning and there is nothing for either of them to do, or nowhere for either of them to be.

“You were hardly in a listening mood,” Helena smirks and switches the TV off. “Are you in a listening mood now?” she turns to her side and rests her head on her folded arm.

Myka’s cheeks flush in a brighter shade of red, but not from anger. She’s blushing with everything that she wants to do the Helena right _this_ minute, and the minute after that, and the minute that follows that one. “I’m not sure,” she smirks in return and walks towards the bed.

“Would you like me to brief you with the goings on?” Helena recognises the determined look in Myka’s eyes, the flush of her cheeks that spread to her chest and rolls on to her back, submitting to her lover.

“Please,” is all Myka says before she places herself above Helena so she straddles her knees, and busies herself with Helena’s belt and jeans buttons.

Helena tells Myka, in between small gasps and tiny moans what happened in the staff meetings, the issues that were raised and solved, and the follow up with Fargo about the coming week as well as his behaviour with Todd the previous night; all the while Myka slowly yet persistently divests her of her jeans and lavishes exposed skin with feathery, heated brushes of fingers.

Later, much later, as the afternoon begins to turn into evening and it’s almost time for their caravan to load up and hit the road north to Vancouver, Helena holds a sleepy Myka in her arms, curled up in the motel bed they hadn’t left all day.

Myka stirs and reaches up to kiss her beloved, a long and tender kiss. “You know that the crew talks,” she whispers after the kiss disintegrates into delicate touches of lips onto lips.

“Of course the crew talks,” Helena answers between these brief, seductive touches, “and what would they be talking about?” she adds after long moments of her lips caressing Myka’s.

“They say that you only come to check on Claudia’s tour because of me,” Myka’s lips travel across Helena’s cheek, to the hollow behind her ear, where she can breathe Helena in.

“And if I did?” Helena closes her eyes, aware of how effective Myka is, persuading her that she isn’t tired anymore, and isn’t as sated as she was a moment ago, and that she _wants_. More. Again.

“Don’t you think we need to be more discreet?” Myka’s voice comes out a breathy whisper and Helena shivers.

She can’t quite reconcile how Myka could spend seven hours in bed with her, being so thorough and playful, being so enjoyable and enjoyed – yet – suggest they behave differently to _this_. “How could we be more discreet?” Helena’s voice is a breathy whisper too.

“We can stay at a different motel,” Myka’s voice changes slightly just before she nibbles on Helena’s earlobe.

“Don’t you think the crew will see right through that?” Helena ends her rhetorical comment with a whimper.

“I suppose they would,” Myka purrs, “so maybe you can come the night before, so they don’t know you’re here.”

Helena isn’t sure how serious Myka is right now. She wants to find out, but her body isn’t letting her. All her body wants is for Myka to do just what she’s doing with her tongue and her lips, and then – heavens – do just what she’s doing with her fingers on Helena’s chest, and – oh, god – just continue doing, as Myka’s fingers take the shortest route to where Helena’s body needs them most.

 

Later still, when they pack up to get in the car and drive up to Vancouver, Helena asks “Would you really want us to be a secret?”

Myka smiles sweetly. “Sometimes I wish there weren’t so many distractions,” she shrugs coyly.

Helena understands. There have been so many distractions lately. Since Claudia’s second album was released they’ve only been able to see each other once or twice a week. In the past two months they haven’t spent a single night in Myka’s house (or Helena’s flat, for that matter). All the time they’ve spent feels stolen.

And now The Warehouse is expanding, like a beast that was awakened from hibernation and is eager to do more and grow larger, to make up for the long, cold winter that depleted it; which means more work and more travelling. So tomorrow they will once more part in an airport, and as Myka will fly back to her home, Helena will set off to New York, then London, then Berlin and they won’t see each other for a few weeks. Again.

And while this lifestyle of being apart and coming back together allow them to miss each other in a way Helena knows won’t exist if they lived the same daily routines day in and day out in each other’s incessant company, she can’t help by empathise with Myka’s sentiment, with her wish for fewer distractions.

She, too, misses Myka so much.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 19: in/decent proposal.

# Chapter 19

Helena walks into Myka’s house (she is still shy of calling it ‘ _their house’_ , even though it’s been nearly six months since she moved most of her stuff in, and a little more than that since she’d spent more than 20 minutes alone in her own apartment) after her flight from Berlin lands, after two and a half weeks of what should have been called a European Big City Tour Madness, a by-product of The Warehouse’s expansion spree.

As she shuts the door silently behind her a small satisfied smile creeps to her lips, because she missed this quaint and remote little house, and she missed its occupant even more.

“Hello,” she calls out, expecting a groggy response from somewhere because it’s later than her planned arrival time, due to some airport mess on The Continent. It’s nearly 2am, and Helena reckons Myka would only be half asleep, because she insisted on waiting up for her when they spoke two hours ago, just before Helena’s last connection took off. “Myka?” Helena calls out as the slips her shoulder bag off and places it by the entrance to the living room. She creeps up to the sofa and bends over its back, thinking Myka will on it.

She’s not.

Helena starts up the stairs, and walks into the bedroom, where the bed is not only Myka-less, it’s also still made.

“Righty-ho,” she quirks an eyebrow and makes her way back down and out, towards the studio, the only logical place to find Myka at this hour.

When she opens the studio doors, she expects there to be music or noise of some description, but it’s quiet. Very very quiet. And dark. Helena’s concern grows, because a quiet Myka is quite probably the most complicated to fathom, the most difficult for her to deal with.

She looks in the studio’s seating area and the kitchen first, and then walks in to the control room, that also turns out to be empty. The studio is dimly lit, and from where she is standing, she can’t actually see Myka anywhere. So she walks into the studio to find her lying on her back in the middle of the studio’s floor, looking up at the vaulted ceilings.

There is an empty bottle of single malt on the rug next to her accompanied by an empty glass. Helena can’t help but wonder when the drinking started – before or after their quick midnight exchange on the phone, and how much of that bottle was full when the drinking commenced. Then she ponders what or who could have caused this.

All this freezes Helena where she stands in the doorway between the control room and the studio. She’s experienced Myka drunk in the past, but not silently drunk. There is something heavy in the air, possibly lost or angry or hurt, and Helena doesn’t know if she inadvertently caused it, much like she had so many times before. So she just stands there, looking at Myka from a distance, cradling her own elbows and tentatively putting up her defences in preparation of whatever Myka will throw at her.

“I’m not gonna bite,” Myka drawls, her voice low and hoarse.

“You know I rather like it when you do,” she answers without thinking, a response that comes from her default stance, from behind her wall of playful confidence.

Myka snorts a short laugh. “Fine,” she pushes herself up to her elbows and looks towards Helena. “I may bite,” she adds, and beckons Helena to come to her with an unsteady nudge of the head, “but only if you ask nicely,” a sly smile is splayed across her face.

Helena walks over, considering Myka’s response. It’s closer to what she knows of drunk Myka than the quiet Myka she was wary of. She decides that anger and hurt are unlikely to be the cause of this, and even if they are, she does not believe they are aimed at her, or are a result of something she had done. “What’s going on?” she asks, sitting down next to Myka, facing her.

Myka takes in a deep breath, looks into Helena’s eyes, then releases it in a harsh and long groan-cum-growl as she lets herself fall back on the carpet.

This is new ground for them, Helena thinks. It’s certainly new ground for her. This is the hard graft that relationships are made of, and Helena is brave enough to admit to herself that she is a little bit afraid of this because Myka – right now – looks and feels a lot like those artists she vowed to stay away from.

Myka covers her face with her hands that muffle another groan that she releases. “I can’t believe…” she mutters into her palms.

Helena grinds her teeth silently.

Myka sits up fluidly. “This is embarrassing, okay?” she says, her voice clear as a bell, not a hint of drunkenness about it, “and this isn’t as bad as it looks,” she gestures at the empty bottle, “it’s just… embarrassing more than anything else.”

The fact she repeats ‘embarrassing’ twice in the same sentence tells Helena that Myka _is_ drunk, but also feels very bad about it. She reaches a tentative hand and places it on Myka’s knee. She is rewarded with Myka’s warm, clammy palm on top of it.

“I’m sorry,” Myka quietens again.

“You needn’t be,” Helena peeks from behind her wall of self-assurance.

She huffs another laugh. “I kinda do,” she says, “because this is the stupidest reason to fall into the bottom of that bottle,” she looks into Helena’s eyes, “but I can’t seem to help it.”

“Do you want me to ask?” Helena checks after a moment’s silence, seeing as Myka isn’t volunteering the information.

Myka nods mutely.

“What reason is that?”

Myka’s expression turns helpless. She knows she needed to be asked, but she doesn’t really know the answer. And even though she might, she doesn’t really like it. “I need inspiration, I suppose, clarity, maybe,” she answers and something about that answer makes Helena cringe.

Neither are frequently found at the bottom of a drink, Helena thinks but decides to say nothing, thinking sarcasm is likely to be unhelpful right now, and instead she screws an inquisitive look at Myka.

“I got an offer today,” Myka explains with a quick breath, “right after I got off the phone with you, actually.”

“An offer?” Helena leans forward a bit and pushes her hair behind her ear, as though it would interfere with the travel of sound to it.

Myka nods as she brings a hand to rub a phantom pain above her brow.

“Who?” Helena tries to get some details, “What kind of an offer?”

“Your boss,” Myka holds up her index finger, “offered to buy me out,” she holds up her middle finger.

Helena’s jaw drops. This is something she did not expect. “My boss?” she asks with utter disbelief, “offered to buy you out?” She realises she’s repeated what Myka just said verbatim, yet the meaning of the words refuse to fully take hold in her understanding.

“Yup,” Myka punctuates the sound of the ‘P’, “turned up here with her weird suit and her bodyguard and all that,” she says while rocking with a continuous nod she can’t seem to stop. “Why does she have a bodyguard, anyway?” Myka’s secret service mind makes a point to show it’s still working by highlighting out the oddness of the detail.

“Irene Frederic was here?” Helena asks again.

“Yes,” Myka draws her answer out, looking at Helena, trying to gauge why she is so shocked. Surely she knew something about it, this has Helena written all over it.

“Goodness,” Helena exclaims with a smile. She tries to think how this came about, she barely spoke to Irene about Myka. Maybe Leena said something? Looking at Myka, though, Helena’s not sure how she feels about it. When she first came in to the studio she thought the woman in front of her was the silent, sulky Myka, the kind of woman she is after she returns from Colorado, or after her sister rings her. But she’s not sure this is _that_ Myka.

“Did you do this?” Myka asks in her usual, straight-to-the-point manner.

“Me?” Helena points at herself in surprise, “No,” she adds while shaking her head vigorously. “I intended to speak to Irene about working with you, about collaborating more, about handing some of my workload to you…” Helena recognises this is the closest she ever got to babbling, but she is as surprised as she is shocked, probably just as much as Myka is. And she is still not sure whether Myka is happy or angry or sad or confused.

There it is, Helena’s mind stops dead in its tracks and as a figurative sea of lightbulbs lights up over her head. Myka’s confused.

“…but I haven’t had the chance to speak with her,” Helena finishes her thought somewhat distractedly, and runs through her exchange with Myka since she entered the studio.

Yes, she determines. Confused makes perfect sense. She looks at Myka who looks back at her, tired and inebriated. “Darling,” she squeezes Myka’s knee gently, “what would you do with this offer?”

“ARGH,” Myka growls again and falls back on the soft carpet, bringing the base of her palms to rub her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whines. She knows better than to whine, but she really is so confused. Things were just starting to settle with Helena and with the studio. They finally had a pace going, a rhythm. Business was picking up, too. She got to work with Claudia again. And all of a sudden – boom – this lady turns up from Warehouse freakin’ Records and offers her money for her studio and non-existent label. _Good_ money, too.

A part of Myka refuses to believe this is happening because she didn’t even think that her business could be worth much, mostly because it made next to no profit. So why would anyone want to buy a chunk of nothing?

Helena squeezes her knee again, which brings her back to the room that rotates leisurely around her.

“I don’t know, Helena,” she stretches her arms to the sides, letting them slap gently against the carpet. She digs her fingers into it, in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.

Helena smiles and lays down next to Myka, head resting against her shoulder. “How long have you got to give Irene an answer?”

“As long as I want,” Myka answers with evident disbelief at the words she just spoke and blinks heavily.

“And how much did you actually drink?”

“Two doubles,” Myka holds up her index and middle fingers in front of her, then stretches the other two, “in two hours,” she counts the fingers in her mind.

Helena chuckles. This isn’t quite as bad as she’d first thought. Not ideal, and could potentially warrant some intervening at a later date, but right now, she can deal with _this_ drunk, confused Myka, she thinks.

She reckons a distraction will temporarily rid Myka of perplexity. She turns to her side so she faces Myka, and while leaning in to kiss her flushed cheek, she reaches her arm across her belly, purposefully grazing her shirt and a bit of her skin with the back of her short fingernails. “Seeing as you don’t have to decide tonight,” Helena whispers suggestively into the dip below Myka’s jaw, “how about I take your mind elsewhere for a while?”

Myka’s stretches her thumb out to join the four fingers she still holds up in front of her. She looks at her hand in the dim light – a mix of white LEDs glowing in the high beams and moonlight seeping in through the roof windows. Her hand looks and feels foreign to her, pale and ghostly; tendons and blood vessels casting shapes from under her skin.

To her, in her slightly altered state, it’s not just her hand that feels ghostly. The whole evening feels like a surreal, out of body experience that she isn’t quite sure has actually happened and she isn’t sure what to do with, either.

She reaches her unearthly hand to Helena’s hair and weaves her fingers through it, just behind her ear, and she applies the slightest pressure, pulling Helena to her with aching tenderness. The touch of soft hair, the scent of vanilla her fingers release from it, Helena’s accepting sigh, and how she moves closer to Myka make her real again.

“Helena?” Myka closes her eyes and Helena’s lips tease the shell of her ear.

Helena hums to denote her attention is with her object of affection.

“Ask me nicely, please?” Myka’s voice is coarse and low.

Helena knows what that voice means and her smile stretches to a salacious grin and her teeth graze Myka’s neck. “My darling Myka,” she sits up and straddles the reclined woman, then leans in until their lips are a hair’s breadth apart, “will you please,” she touches a fluttering kiss to Myka’s full, top lip, “please,” she repeats the gesture, “sink your teeth…” she doesn’t get to finish her polite request because Myka is already complying, her teeth skimming Helena’s bottom lip, pulling her in for an eager kiss.

Helena laughs and sighs as Myka flips them over, descending upon her gently, yet fully, committing to kisses and bites to her neck and shoulder and chest. She congratulates herself briefly for successfully distracting Myka, but is then distracted herself by the things Myka does to her with her teeth and tongue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and another big thanks to KellsBells).


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter 20 – wonder may be endless but stories have to end somewhere.

She walks into the seating area on the main floor of Warehouse Studios from one of its dark corners, like she often does, only there is no one around for her to scare out of their skin. She takes a deep breath and dons a mysterious expression, an expression that the unsuspecting observer might mistake for her feeling at home.

Or they may not be mistaken at all. Warehouse Studios at six o’clock in the morning is quite possibly the closest thing to a home Irene Frederic has anymore, so dropping in for a visit when it’s dark and quiet gives her the opportunity to feel The Warehouse when it’s at peace.

Today, however, it feels as though it’s sleeping, so she walks fluidly to the kitchen area where she fixes herself a double espresso, a proper double espresso she brews to perfection using a macchinetta (a piece of equipment no one ever noticed was in the cupboard), and pours it into a dainty porcelain cup (a piece of crockery no one had ever noticed was in the cupboard either).

With the cup in hand, she returns to the seating area and takes in the room. It has changed since she last stood here – Leena has taken the time to move the photos that cover the walls around them: new artists have joined The Warehouse and needed to have their place among the rest of the Warehouse’s residents; some of its older friends had since departed, and their place in the crowd had to reflect that.

Mrs. Frederic eyes the images of James MacPherson and Prince and David Bowie in their new, respective corners and thinks of the times they each spent at The Warehouse.

James had practically become part of the Warehouse’s fabric during his 30-year tenure. Even though he hadn’t set foot in the place in nearly as long, Irene can still feel his presence in the walls, in the cornices, in the glass.

She takes a deep breath in, then out, then thinks of a song that would promise James a safe journey, wherever he may be wandering now.

She moves on to inspect the photographs of Bowie and Prince. They were so similar in their intensity, she recalls.

Bowie had just concluded his mad US tour for Mercury Records, who then asked him to reinvent himself for the American Market. He came to The Warehouse for a series of jam sessions with his band in late 1971. It was in this very studio that Ziggy Stardust came to him, at 3 o’clock in the morning, at the end of a 68-hour, drug fuelled jam. Or maybe Ziggy came _out_ of him. You never know what The Warehouse does to an artist.

Prince came to The Warehouse in 1980 with an unknown Minneapolis band who fancied themselves funky. The band struggled to make sense of the recording process, and wound up sending Prince, their lead guitarist, on long breaks (a testament that proved to Irene that the band was categorically _not_ the asset at hand), breaks he spent in Studio B, a small, self-contained room, where he sketched significant portions of what later had become 1999, Purple Rain and Around the World in a Day.

Irene remembers how excited Prince was, how keen yet balanced he was in his creativity despite his young age. How unfazed he was by the complexity of recording, by the technology, by the tenacity it called for.

She remembers how innovation wasn’t “innovation” for Prince; thinking differently was just how he regularly thought, so for him it wasn’t different or innovative at all. It just was.

The Warehouse felt that, as did Irene; and at the time she had hoped Prince would make a home for himself at The Warehouse. She also hoped he would be the one to follow in her footsteps and become the caretaker of this magnificent, musical beast.

That did not come to pass, much to Mrs. Frederic’s dismay. It wasn’t written in the records for Prince to become caretaker. And saddened as she may be by Prince’s choices and now by his demise, there is a glimmer of hope, because there is a new Warehouse resident who is showing similar promise, similar potential: Claudia Donovan, who still resides in the suite above the Warehouse, who has rather literally made The Warehouse her home, feels the likely candidate to fill her shoes when the time comes.

She finds Claudia’s image on the wall and studies the young face in it, so perfectly caught in the pure bliss of creation. Irene knows that Claudia knows that The Warehouse is alive, just as much as her instruments are alive, just as much as music is alive. Claudia’s connection with every aspect of the music business – from conception to creation to production to engagement to marketing to performance – and the fearless strides she takes to make them work in a way that is true to _her_ , tells Irene Frederic that Claudia Donovan can see The Warehouse through whatever the future will throw at it.

Yes – Claudia is destined, in Irene’s mind – to take over the whole of the Warehouse one day; and Irene knows that Claudia’s confidence and prowess would not have come to be without the involvement of her producers, her _peers_ , Bering and Wells.

She thinks of Bering and Wells in these times, and compares them to Neilsen/MacPherson in the olden days. The latter were brought together and – at times – forced together by Irene herself, and they had become what top producers were in those days: a world unto themselves, locked in this ivory tower of spools and sliders, slaves to muses and technology.

They rarely went on tour with their talent. They rarely got involved with the marketing of the talent. That simply wasn’t their job, and in those days, one only did what they were good at, what they were known for: they were the Gods of the studio, and the talent feared them as such.

But Bering and Wells… they are a new kind of powerhouse. They are out there, with their talent – in the studio space and the control room; in the label’s offices and out on the road. They get to know their talent so whatever happens is _right_. Bering and Wells aren’t gods to anyone; and if someone considered them such, they would believe their talent is just as divine as them.

Claudia is a peer to Bering and Wells. And even though Claudia may not see herself as a peer, Bering and Wells never stop acting as though she is.

Bering and Wells heralded the new age in the music business, and Irene knows it. In a world of downloads and composites and pirated music, The Voice and YouTube and flash mobs, music festivals and fan art and an audience that doesn’t listen to a whole album, Bering and Wells work in a decentralised way, where one size fits no one at all, and every artist is an individual.

She thought this would be the brink of chaos, to work big business in a small yet scaleable way, but HG Wells found a way to formulate the non-formulated way of working that makes sense to the global entity that The Warehouse is.

In these new ways of working, gone is the notion that the label+studio owned anything and everything that happened there. Gone are percentage pay-outs to label-owned management. Gone are the miniscule to non-existent fees to artists, at the same time as gone are the advance payments for work that hasn’t been produced yet.

Artists and labels are equals – the share the investment, the burden and the reward. Everybody has to work their rear ends off to make it all worthwhile.

And while HG Wells is a fully accountable member of The Warehouse, driving all this change from within and without, Myka Bering isn’t. Myka Bering is living, breathing proof that even someone who’s not signed to The Warehouse can do it a world of good.

There is still a slumbering seed of disappointment within her that Myka declined her offer to become part of The Warehouse, but as HG constantly reassures her, she knows Myka isn’t going anywhere. The connection Myka shares with The Warehouse is as unique and powerful as that which she forms with her artists, and no amount of legal paperwork is needed to cement that fact.

From the times she’d witnessed Bering and Wells in action, she knows that that unique connection extends beyond the Warehouse and the artists and the music. That connection extends to the one Myka shares with Helena, too.

Irene’s eyes scan the images on the wall to land on the one of Myka Bering and Helena Wells during a recording session of Claudia’s fourth album’s Easter Eggs (as Claudia names them). Claudia insisted Myka and Helena and herself were the only ones in the studio when they reproduced a Sheryl Crow album (of all the music that is out there).

Irene didn’t quite understand when presented with the idea, why Sheryl Crow, and why only the three of them, but fully comprehended within two minutes of the first recording session beginning.

The look Myka shares with Helena in the photograph is all the documentation Irene needs to cement Myka’s presence at The Warehouse.

HG is right – Myka isn’t going anywhere.

And Irene knows that neither is Helena.

And she also knows that that’s a really, really wondrous thing.

 

* * *

 

It’s Thursday night and Myka is sitting by her usual table at the B&B and Artie wobbles over to bring her her double scotch and club soda. He sits himself down next to her and they watch Sally Stukowski mesmerise the audience with her eerie brand of alternative folk.

“Alone again?” he asks her between songs.

Myka screws him a sideways glance and sips her scotch with a small shrug.

“It’s not an easy life, is it?” Artie leans back in his chair, weaves his fingers together and rests his palms atop his belly, looking at the stage.

“If it were easy,” Myka rests the tumbler on the table in front of her and leans back herself, “everybody would do it.”

He laughs silently in a way that bounces the whole of his body.

They watch Sally finish her set and Trey introduce the next act.

“I hear business is going well,” he casts his question and gaze upon Myka.

She gives a slight nod. “I can’t complain,” she says.

“I told you you’re the kind of person The Warehouse needs,” he mutters with a self-satisfied smile.

“I hear you’ve been offered a job,” she turns to face him, pricking him back with the kind of piercing question he’s been pricking her with tonight, and every other Thursday.

He humphs a chuckle. “Myka, I’ve been offered jobs at The Warehouse since the day I left it.” He gets up from his chair, takes a few steps towards the bar, but returns to Myka’s table and leans down on it. “Much like you, though, I don’t need a contract to tell me what I’m doing,” he raises a bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow. The look in his eyes is the same look of the hungry 20-something-year-old that started working as an apprentice in a small recording studio in the middle of nowhere. There’s a photo on some wall at The Warehouse with that very look.

Myka smiles back at him, an appreciative smile, before he pushes himself straight and walks back to the bar.

“Some might say I never actually left,” he mumbles as he walks away from Myka, not knowing that she mouths his words as he speaks them.

Myka picks her drink up and sips it slowly, thinking about her studio being an extension to Warehouse Studios and her label being an extension to Warehouse Records, even though there isn’t a single contract that states that.

She thinks that any of the parties involved can up and leave this handshake agreement at any given time, but no one has, not in the four years they’ve had this agreement, because everybody seems to be happy so far.

Even she’s happy.

Her business has a rhythm: she signs a new artist or one is introduced to her, and she’ll cut the first album with them, then a second album follows with her and Helena. By this point, looking at how touring and fan engagement go, it’s pretty clear whether or not the whole thing is working, whether the artist is made for a Warehouse adventure. So if there’s a third album, it’s a Warehouse’s album.

They’ve launched five artists in three years this way so far, not including Claudia, and all five took. Something they’re doing must be right, she thinks, as her secret service mind analyses what they’ve done and how they’ve done it with each of these artists, because there’s a new artist coming to her studio next week.

And Myka is nothing if not a thorough reflector who wants to continue being so good at what she does.

A cold hand glides onto her shoulder and startles her. It is followed by a husky whisper in her ear, as that hand floats down her chest to wrap her in a tentative hug.

“I cannot believe Marcus Diamond is still playing open mics,” Helena speaks softly in her ear, “and I cannot believe he is playing our song,” her voice turns into a sigh as she leans into Myka, whose smile widens.

“Since when is We Are Never Getting Back Together our song?” Myka mutters through a smirk, and tries her hardest to not turn her head to greet Helena’s lips with her own.

“The ultimate indulgence, darling,” Helena breathes, and Myka laughs and gives in to greet her beloved, who returned from a board meeting in LA to celebrate some anniversary or another in their long journey together, with a slow kiss.

Helena, who’s only been away for a couple of nights, tries to pull Myka closer, kiss her more deeply, and Myka relents for a moment; she brushes her hand up Helena’s side, all the way from her hip to the side of her breast, and her smile brightens and Helena cannot resist but bite into it.

Then Myka mumbles something into the kiss and pulls away slightly.  “Can we get out of here, please?”

“Please,” Helena replies with a smile of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for persevering and reading and commenting and supporting and inspiring.
> 
> ...and... There’s a YouTube play list here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLehF5Zy1mmG5RNU3iHfwLODRhBZAJqxjp
> 
> * It isn’t a one-for-one playlist, meaning I didn’t exactly create a play list with all the music I mention in here, and it isn’t in the order of appearance in the story. I sort of glued three and a half playlists that dominated my brain while working on this story (I suppose it’s no surprise that about 80% of the songs on those playlists get a mention in the story).  
> Two songs are critically missing from it, because I couldn’t find good versions of them on YouTube:  
> Joan Osborne’s Ladder and Lucy Wainright Roche’s A Quiet Line (both are from chapter 15[!]). If you can find them elsewhere – please, please, please listen! I think they’re great songs.
> 
> (here endeth an interesting experiment...)  
> I hope you enjoyed the ride.  
> (and here’s to the inspiring talent that lives in our hearts always.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for choosing Success Records for your indie music needs. :)  
> (This is a bit of an experiment so I would love to know what you think, all critique is warmly welcomed.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Success](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896389) by [JoLupo26 (CatandKaraForever)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatandKaraForever/pseuds/JoLupo26)




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